Hollywood Ending
[Scene: Office of a Big Shot Hollywood Producer. (But not that one.)]
Big Shot Hollywood Producer: Ms. Proulx! C'mon in! Proulx... is that french? Could be a problem. What do you go by? Ann? Okay if I call you Ann?
Ann Proulx: I prefer Annie. It's nice to meet you.
BSHP: Annie! That works! Annie it is! Glad you could stop by to talk about our little project. Good stuff. Bonanza meets In And Out. Love that. Hey... Wonder if Selleck is available. Nah... Probably wouldn't want to do another gay role. Anyway Annie, I guess you know the ending is a problem.
Annie Proulx: The ending? A problem? What do you mean? My entire story builds towards the ending. It's a story about the choices we make, and...
BSHP: Well yeah, but I'm sorry to tell you that the ending doesn't work. People will be tuning out as soon as they have that last scene up at Bearback Lake or whatever it's called.
Annie Proulx: Well, I have to disagree. The story, as conceived...
BSHP: Now... Whatever... Let me tell you how a story works...
Annie Proulx: Well, I have to point out that my fiction has been fairly well received, and this story.
BSHP: Fiction. Right. Ma'am, I hate to tell you, but outside of murder mysteries and romance novels, there are five thousand people in the country who read "fiction," and they all live in Manhattan below 96th Street. Except for a couple hundred who live in Brooklyn. Fiction doesn't make box office, and neither does that fizzle of an ending of yours.
Annie Proulx: Well what are you suggesting...
BSHP: I'm glad you asked. Let me introduce you to the guy that is going to save your story, Annie. This is Harley Kincaid. He's a genius. Absolute genius. Our secret weapon around here. Just graduated from USC Film School...
Harley: Actually I have a semester to go yet...
BSHP: Right! Anyway, since we've got Harley here working on the project, it's in the bag. We'll make a mint.
Harley: Well... Cool!
Annie: ***!***
BSHP: So what have you got for us, Harley?
Harley: Ummm... Okay. I came up with three treatments that I think would work.
BSHP: You hear that? Three! Not just one... Three!
Harley: Yo! What can I say? So anyway, here's the first one...
[Harley shuffles papers and reads.]
Okay. So, we're good up until the scene where Jack and Ennis are at Brokeback Mountain for what they think will be the last time. Okay. Right. So Jack and Ennis have a fight, and they decide to go talk it over so they go to a roadhouse and get some beers. While they're talking,
BSHP: A saloon! Of course! How could we have been so stupid! You can't have a Western without a saloon! Go on, Harley!
Harley: So anyway, at some point, Jack hugs Ennis, or maybe Ennis hugs Jack, and some of the good ol' boys at the bar notice. And they go over and say something like, "We don't want no queers here in this town." And Ennis just snaps, right? He gets up, and he says, "Bring it on!" And so this big fight breaks out! And Jack and Ennis are kicking serious butt! And... y'know... we can have like fiddle music going and all. But then, the good ol' boys get the upper hand, right? And all of a sudden things are looking bad. But then, get this! In comes Ennis' daughter, Alma! Right? And she's like "Hey! Stop this!" And like, smashes a beer bottle to get everybody's attention. And then she's like, pointing to all the guys in the bar, and she's saying like, "Enoch Purvis! When your fence broke last winter and all your cattle were loose, who helped you round them all up?" And the guy is like, "Uh... Ennis." And Gabriel Lackland, when your wife took sick and your truck broke down, who drove her forty miles to the hospital?" And again, the guy is like, "Uh... Ennis." And it goes on and on. And she hits everybody in the bar. And so then they're all like, "Whoa! She's right!" And it ends with a shot of Ennis and Jack on rocking chairs on their front porch, and guys are going by in pickup trucks and they're all like Hey Ennis! Hey Jack! You boys comin' to the church ice cream social this Saturday? And they're like, "Yeah! We'll see you there!"
Annie: That is ridiculous.
BSHP: I kind of like it. Hey! Here's an idea! We could have Johnny Knoxville and the other guy from the Dukes of Hazzard remake in the fight scene with'em! The DVD will be out then and it'll be a great tie in! We could have a shot where the four of'em look at each other and give each other looks like "Yeah! Let's get'em!"... No? Well, like I said, I'm not the genius, that would be Harley. What's your second idea Harley?
Harley: Okay. So after the last-fishing-trip-scene, Ennis drives all the way down to Texas, right? And he busts in on Jack when he's there with his wife at the tractor store or whatever it is, and he's like, Jack, I can't live without you. And I can't live with you in Wyoming. And I can't live with you here. So we're going some place where we can be together. And then there's a shot of them driving away in a truck. And then, get this! it's the present, right, and Ennis, like fifty years old, is telling the story to a young guy! It was all like a flashback, right? And Jack and Ennis own a bar in the Castro called "Brokeback Mountain," like a cowboy gay bar! And after he's done telling the story, Jack comes up to him, and he's like, "Can I have this dance?" And he puts their favorite song on the juke box, and that's how it ends with the two of them dancing.
BSHP: Love that! I love that! Oh that's perfect! Oh that's so great! Isn't that great Annie?
Annie: I can't believe...
BSHP: I know! Don't get me wrong, great characters in your script, Annie, but Harley here has turned this into a killer movie! And you got one more for us, Harley?
Harley: Oh yeah! I saved the best for last! Okay. So again, we take off from the last-fishing-trip-scene, right. And they're standing there, and all of a sudden this helicopter comes over the hill, flying really low, buzzing them, right? And they're like, Yo! Holy shit! And the helicopter lands real close to them, and they're like looking at it from behind a rock or something, and these guys get out of the helicopter, and they've got this missile! And Jack is like, "Ennis! What is that?" And Ennis goes, "That is a thermonuclear warhead, Jack." And Jack's like, "Who are those guys? What are they doing with that?" And Ennis says, he says: "Those are Arab terrorists. Iranians. This is bad, Jack." And Jack is like, "We've gotta go get the sherif!" And Ennis is like, "No way, Jack! We'd never get back here in time! We've gotta take care of this ourselves!" And they do! Jack and Ennis totally fight the terrorists! And there are like eight of them, and they get them all one by one, right? And like, the supreme bad guy terrorist, he's last right? And he almost kills Jack, but Ennis gets him just in time. And then, they're like at this ceremony in the White House, and President Jimmy Carter is like giving them a medal, and saying what great Americans they are, right? And it's like on television and all. And then Ennis is like, "Mr. President, we didn't do anything that any patriotic American wouldn't do in the same circumstances..." Stuff like that. But then, get this! Then Ennis turns to the camera, and he's like "Ummm... Aw shucks! Listen America! I love this man! And he loves me! And we should not have to hang our head in shame about that!" And Jimmy Carter is like, "Well ain't that sumfin'!" And Jimmy Carter goes, "I declare Gay marriage is okay!" And he marries them right there! And they're like the first gays to get married, and they're national heroes!
Annie and BSHP (Together, but with diifferent inflections): Oh. My. God.
BSHP: That's perfect! That's it! It's got it all! This will be box office gold! That works!
Annie: I can't... There's no way...
BSHP: Not to worry, Annie. All you've got to do is sit back and wait for the checks to come in.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
At The Gym
I went to the gym tonight after work.
Okay. True confession: I haven't been to the gym in about a month. Well, I have been. While in the throes of a Bad Cold, I would convince myself that I really shouldn't be taxing my body beyond the effort of fighting a cold, so I would go and do my kabuki theater stretching routine. And, the day of my job interview, I headed there after work to shower and change into the blue pinstripe knock'em-dead suit. But heaving steel? Not a lot of that.
But MAL is fast approaching, and I bettah work.
The first surprise came when I hopped on the scale. I was bracing myself for a bad experience, of course. Longtime Singletails readers will know that my eternal battle at the gym is putting on weight. Inside me is a guy who weighs 145 pounds soaking wet, and I do my best to keep him buried within. My goal used to be 205, but then I decided I'd settle for 195, and right now, I'd be thrilled to hit 190. When I was going regular to the gym over the summer and autumn, I managed to maintain over 185, but just barely. So tonight I hopped on the scale and it read 187.5. That's an all time high. It's been years since I hit that.
But walking away from the scale, all smug and all, I happened to think... I've noticed that some of my pants seem to be tight. I attributed this to the fact that it's freezing cold in these parts and I've been layering. But could it be that my size 32 waist is becoming a size 33?
Take note: I am not upset at all about this development. I like a man with meat on his bones, and I'd like to be liked by a man who likes men with meat on their bones.
And my workout! I was able to do all the weight that I last did four weeks ago! I lost no ground! Amazing!
So I'm feeling all good about myself as I headed to the showers. And wasn't I all yukkity-yuk with the guys in the lockerroom. (And keep in mind, in a gym populated almost exclusively by dads and high school athletes, I tend to stand out with my ankle to wrist chain tattoo and my cockring that never comes off. But amazingly, they're coool with that.
And I showered, then headed to the steamroom.
And there he was. It was the inconsiderate asshole from several weeks ago! Perched on the bench, with the steam off, reading his goddamn paper. (Who does that?)
Without thinking, I blurted out, "Hey! Mind if I hit the button to turn the steam on?"
And before I could complete that sentence, he said, "No sure, that's fine."
So it was that easy.
Man, did I play it wrong the last time around. All I had to do was ask. And I let him have it with the steam. And he just sat there, drinking his water and reading his paper. No big deal.
Huh.
So you never know.
I went to the gym tonight after work.
Okay. True confession: I haven't been to the gym in about a month. Well, I have been. While in the throes of a Bad Cold, I would convince myself that I really shouldn't be taxing my body beyond the effort of fighting a cold, so I would go and do my kabuki theater stretching routine. And, the day of my job interview, I headed there after work to shower and change into the blue pinstripe knock'em-dead suit. But heaving steel? Not a lot of that.
But MAL is fast approaching, and I bettah work.
The first surprise came when I hopped on the scale. I was bracing myself for a bad experience, of course. Longtime Singletails readers will know that my eternal battle at the gym is putting on weight. Inside me is a guy who weighs 145 pounds soaking wet, and I do my best to keep him buried within. My goal used to be 205, but then I decided I'd settle for 195, and right now, I'd be thrilled to hit 190. When I was going regular to the gym over the summer and autumn, I managed to maintain over 185, but just barely. So tonight I hopped on the scale and it read 187.5. That's an all time high. It's been years since I hit that.
But walking away from the scale, all smug and all, I happened to think... I've noticed that some of my pants seem to be tight. I attributed this to the fact that it's freezing cold in these parts and I've been layering. But could it be that my size 32 waist is becoming a size 33?
Take note: I am not upset at all about this development. I like a man with meat on his bones, and I'd like to be liked by a man who likes men with meat on their bones.
And my workout! I was able to do all the weight that I last did four weeks ago! I lost no ground! Amazing!
So I'm feeling all good about myself as I headed to the showers. And wasn't I all yukkity-yuk with the guys in the lockerroom. (And keep in mind, in a gym populated almost exclusively by dads and high school athletes, I tend to stand out with my ankle to wrist chain tattoo and my cockring that never comes off. But amazingly, they're coool with that.
And I showered, then headed to the steamroom.
And there he was. It was the inconsiderate asshole from several weeks ago! Perched on the bench, with the steam off, reading his goddamn paper. (Who does that?)
Without thinking, I blurted out, "Hey! Mind if I hit the button to turn the steam on?"
And before I could complete that sentence, he said, "No sure, that's fine."
So it was that easy.
Man, did I play it wrong the last time around. All I had to do was ask. And I let him have it with the steam. And he just sat there, drinking his water and reading his paper. No big deal.
Huh.
So you never know.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Adieu 2005
Here we are at the butt end of a bad year. In the larger world, we had a tsunami in the Indian Ocean, genocide in Darfur, terrorist bombings in the London Underground, Hurricane Katrina and its hateful aftermath, an earthquake in Pakistan where they're still numbering the dead, and, of course, the ongoing tragedy in Iraq.
And then there's my life. I started off the year by... ummm... loving unwisely but too well. And having my heart broken. It was a tough thing, since I pride myself on my ability to give my heart away, and look for opportunities to do that. Love, after all, makes my world go around. And I learned, hard lesson that it is, that the intimacy and connection that go down in a scene do not necessarily translate into the world of jobs and geography and socio-economic strata.
And living here with my dad, I hit the wall. Again and a gain and again. Whammo. Ker-powww. Splat. My illusions about my father we're stripped away. It took me up to and beyond my breaking point. Frustration, rage, and despair. I'm not sure I could say I've managed to come through. Perhaps I'm only keeping those at bay. For the moment.
At one point, out walking Faithful Companion one night, I lifted my eyes to heaven, and with rage and let the Almighty know that I couldn't take it any more. "How long, God? How much longer?" And I got a reply! That still, small voice answered me and said, "Until you learn everything that you need to learn." And that sure made sense. I was like, "Oh. Right. Okay."
And so I'm doing my best to learn.
Sad, lonely, angry, depressed.
But man have I learned. It's amazing what happens when you just keep your eyes open.
All about the moment. And not seeking outside of myself. And trusting. And being grateful for what the people in your life bring you. And, most importantly, always always always always giving it your all. Especially when you're holding someone's heart in your hands. Don't phone it in. Make it count.
And heck, like it's been all bad? Naw. Not a bit.
SM saved my life. Again.
First off, there were those scenes with the guy from LA. Finding out what submission was all about. Just opening up, and wanting so bad to give him whatever he wants to take, because you know that you will emerge intact, only better than before, because you've seen the beauty within yourself. Oh man. I look forward to getting back to that place. That sweet sweet place.
And then, there was the kayak. What a great move that was. Water, sunshine, and the strain of my muscles propelling me along over the water of Lake Galena. So simple. So perfect.
And, of course, there was Inferno Session A. Jiminy crickets. It was pure. I hit it right.
I read recently that Harold Pinter said something like "words are what we use to distract people from where we hurt." (Okay, that's not what Harold Pinter said, but that's what I thought when I read whatever it was he said, which was something along those lines.) And the big thing I did at Inferno was not distract myself, or others. I just let it out and let it in. Getting whipped by Roadkill was extraordinary, catching me totally by surprise. But that's the way most things in life that are truly important go down.
And now here I am. There will be change. Change will come. Maybe it's happening already.
This guy. This guy I met. A man who makes me wonder what's possible. Just where it could all go. And my sense is, it could go anywhere. Anywhere at all.
But we'll see.
Here we are at the butt end of a bad year. In the larger world, we had a tsunami in the Indian Ocean, genocide in Darfur, terrorist bombings in the London Underground, Hurricane Katrina and its hateful aftermath, an earthquake in Pakistan where they're still numbering the dead, and, of course, the ongoing tragedy in Iraq.
And then there's my life. I started off the year by... ummm... loving unwisely but too well. And having my heart broken. It was a tough thing, since I pride myself on my ability to give my heart away, and look for opportunities to do that. Love, after all, makes my world go around. And I learned, hard lesson that it is, that the intimacy and connection that go down in a scene do not necessarily translate into the world of jobs and geography and socio-economic strata.
And living here with my dad, I hit the wall. Again and a gain and again. Whammo. Ker-powww. Splat. My illusions about my father we're stripped away. It took me up to and beyond my breaking point. Frustration, rage, and despair. I'm not sure I could say I've managed to come through. Perhaps I'm only keeping those at bay. For the moment.
At one point, out walking Faithful Companion one night, I lifted my eyes to heaven, and with rage and let the Almighty know that I couldn't take it any more. "How long, God? How much longer?" And I got a reply! That still, small voice answered me and said, "Until you learn everything that you need to learn." And that sure made sense. I was like, "Oh. Right. Okay."
And so I'm doing my best to learn.
Sad, lonely, angry, depressed.
But man have I learned. It's amazing what happens when you just keep your eyes open.
All about the moment. And not seeking outside of myself. And trusting. And being grateful for what the people in your life bring you. And, most importantly, always always always always giving it your all. Especially when you're holding someone's heart in your hands. Don't phone it in. Make it count.
And heck, like it's been all bad? Naw. Not a bit.
SM saved my life. Again.
First off, there were those scenes with the guy from LA. Finding out what submission was all about. Just opening up, and wanting so bad to give him whatever he wants to take, because you know that you will emerge intact, only better than before, because you've seen the beauty within yourself. Oh man. I look forward to getting back to that place. That sweet sweet place.
And then, there was the kayak. What a great move that was. Water, sunshine, and the strain of my muscles propelling me along over the water of Lake Galena. So simple. So perfect.
And, of course, there was Inferno Session A. Jiminy crickets. It was pure. I hit it right.
I read recently that Harold Pinter said something like "words are what we use to distract people from where we hurt." (Okay, that's not what Harold Pinter said, but that's what I thought when I read whatever it was he said, which was something along those lines.) And the big thing I did at Inferno was not distract myself, or others. I just let it out and let it in. Getting whipped by Roadkill was extraordinary, catching me totally by surprise. But that's the way most things in life that are truly important go down.
And now here I am. There will be change. Change will come. Maybe it's happening already.
This guy. This guy I met. A man who makes me wonder what's possible. Just where it could all go. And my sense is, it could go anywhere. Anywhere at all.
But we'll see.
Trash TV Update
In case you missed tonight's episode of Wife Swap on ABC, we had a glimpse of the power of leather to change lives for the better.
The premise of the show is that two spouses from two families change places for two weeks. Generally, the pairings tend to be red state/blue state. So, y'know, we get to see mom from the Upper East Side adjust to life in the trailer park, and trailer park mom deal with life on Park Avenue. I have to say that usually, the red staters come off better, questioning, for example, why no one spends any time with the kids or whatever.
But anyway, tonight was pretty cool. It involved a swap of husbands, rather than wives. The first family--let's call them the Zen's--lived in an intentional community, recycled everything, watched no television, talked about "living responsibly," and "honoring our mother, the Earth." The second family, we'll call them the Harley's, are pretty much run of the mill folks, although dad rides a Harley, has a nice sleeve tattoo, and seems to enjoy life. Zen Dad didn't make out so well at the Harley residence. He came off as judgmental and preachy (go figure). But he did get the Harley's to clean up their yard and meet all their formerly hostile neighbors. Mr. Harley, on the other hand was a huge hit. He soon had the Zen family sitting down to a steak dinner in front of the television set and took the kids to an amusement park.
But here's the coolest part: he got Mrs. Zen a day job in a biker bar and some leathers to go with it. From the footage we saw, Mrs. Zen had a blast! There she was, doing tequilla shots. At one point, she spoke about how great it felt wearing her leather, how fun it was to be a babe.
When the unswapping took place, Mrs. Zen decided to wear her leathers for the occasion. Come to think of it, every time she was on screen after that, Mrs. Zen was leathered up.
Huh.
And once reunited with his family, Mr. Zen commented that his wife seems to be "more amorous."
Speaking of which, among the few gifts I gave to myself this Christmas was a pair of leather pants I found on amazon.com, of all places. For $69.95.
I know, right? Seventy bucks for leather pants!
Okay okay okay. So you get what you pay for, right? But I figure, even if they are a disaster, I'll still be able to wear them for wrestling or nasty pig sex or something like that. So we'll see. When FedEx manages to deliver them to me, I'll let you know how it all works out.
In case you missed tonight's episode of Wife Swap on ABC, we had a glimpse of the power of leather to change lives for the better.
The premise of the show is that two spouses from two families change places for two weeks. Generally, the pairings tend to be red state/blue state. So, y'know, we get to see mom from the Upper East Side adjust to life in the trailer park, and trailer park mom deal with life on Park Avenue. I have to say that usually, the red staters come off better, questioning, for example, why no one spends any time with the kids or whatever.
But anyway, tonight was pretty cool. It involved a swap of husbands, rather than wives. The first family--let's call them the Zen's--lived in an intentional community, recycled everything, watched no television, talked about "living responsibly," and "honoring our mother, the Earth." The second family, we'll call them the Harley's, are pretty much run of the mill folks, although dad rides a Harley, has a nice sleeve tattoo, and seems to enjoy life. Zen Dad didn't make out so well at the Harley residence. He came off as judgmental and preachy (go figure). But he did get the Harley's to clean up their yard and meet all their formerly hostile neighbors. Mr. Harley, on the other hand was a huge hit. He soon had the Zen family sitting down to a steak dinner in front of the television set and took the kids to an amusement park.
But here's the coolest part: he got Mrs. Zen a day job in a biker bar and some leathers to go with it. From the footage we saw, Mrs. Zen had a blast! There she was, doing tequilla shots. At one point, she spoke about how great it felt wearing her leather, how fun it was to be a babe.
When the unswapping took place, Mrs. Zen decided to wear her leathers for the occasion. Come to think of it, every time she was on screen after that, Mrs. Zen was leathered up.
Huh.
And once reunited with his family, Mr. Zen commented that his wife seems to be "more amorous."
Speaking of which, among the few gifts I gave to myself this Christmas was a pair of leather pants I found on amazon.com, of all places. For $69.95.
I know, right? Seventy bucks for leather pants!
Okay okay okay. So you get what you pay for, right? But I figure, even if they are a disaster, I'll still be able to wear them for wrestling or nasty pig sex or something like that. So we'll see. When FedEx manages to deliver them to me, I'll let you know how it all works out.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Ennis Del Mar, Jack Twist, And Me
Let us now wax rhapsodic on Brokeback Mountain, the most extraordinary movie I’ve ever seen.
Seriously, it’s amazing. Absolutely beautiful. Without flaw. Every shot, every word of dialog, every plot development. There will be my life before I saw Brokeback Mountain, and my life after Brokeback Mountain.
It’s a love story. And it’s my kind of love story. Not a hokey, gooey hearts and flowers love. Something found in the bargain basement of life. But the kind of love that takes an axe to everything, shatters all assumptions, changes the course of your life.
And the movie honors love, adhering to the Chryssie Hind principle: “When love walks in the room, every body stand up!” Urging all of us to keep careful watch; when love enters your life, don’t turn your back, don’t brush it aside, don’t bury it on your To Do list, don’t take a raincheck. Nothing is more important. It’s the closest thing to redemtion we get in this life. And you don’t know when you’ll get another opportunity. After all, there are no guarantees that you will.
Brokeback Mountain made me think about my job in the woodshop. And that way that men have with each other. Men who work hard, and measure the worth andvalue of another man by how hard he works. That mixture of toughness and tenderness of how men are together that shows itself in action and words can’t capture.
In a way, it’s an anti-capitalist movie. In other words, it’s a movie about two men who fall in love, but it’s not a gay movie. “Gay” has become a market niche, a commodity that you can buy. And, in fact, that you have to buy. If you want to be gay, you better clear our some space on your credit cards. This, of course, has implications for the leatherworld, too. John Ashcroft has done us a huge favor, ensuring that we won’t be assimilated into the sucking vortex anytime soon. For now, we’ll remain a counter-cultural experience. When the day comes that you wonder if you’re doing it “right,” whether your cell phone plan is the “right” cell phone plan for a leatherman (or leatherboy or leatherwoman or leatherwhatever), then you’ll know that dread day has come, and something precious and beautiful is gone forever
I also wonder if the movie will have an effect on our culture, the way movies used to have. People used to model what they saw on the big screen, finding in the depictions of Jimmy Stewart, Peter Fonda, Humphrey Bogart, James Dean, Charles Bronson, and so many others, ways to live their own lives. Gay men really haven’t had a lot of options here. Perhaps--and I realize I’m hoping for the moon and stars here--being gay in this the post-Brokeback world, won’t be seen as a terms of wardrobe, circuit parties, killer abs, and all sorts of fabulousness (which comes at a price always), but simply a matter of two men falling in love.
And it’s a political movie, too, having a similar effect on me as when I read Larry Kramer’s Reports From The Holocaust all those years ago. I will work to make this a world safe for Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist to fall in love.
Anyway. Go see the movie. I’ve buried it in enough verbiage.
Oh! And how cool is this? Just to make it clear, I’m not living in New York, Los Angeles, or San Francisco. Not even Seattle, Chicago, Houston, Miami, Atlanta, Philadelphia or Boston. I saw Brokeback Mountain in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Which is not exactly the Heartland, but believe me, we’re out there.
Let us now wax rhapsodic on Brokeback Mountain, the most extraordinary movie I’ve ever seen.
Seriously, it’s amazing. Absolutely beautiful. Without flaw. Every shot, every word of dialog, every plot development. There will be my life before I saw Brokeback Mountain, and my life after Brokeback Mountain.
It’s a love story. And it’s my kind of love story. Not a hokey, gooey hearts and flowers love. Something found in the bargain basement of life. But the kind of love that takes an axe to everything, shatters all assumptions, changes the course of your life.
And the movie honors love, adhering to the Chryssie Hind principle: “When love walks in the room, every body stand up!” Urging all of us to keep careful watch; when love enters your life, don’t turn your back, don’t brush it aside, don’t bury it on your To Do list, don’t take a raincheck. Nothing is more important. It’s the closest thing to redemtion we get in this life. And you don’t know when you’ll get another opportunity. After all, there are no guarantees that you will.
Brokeback Mountain made me think about my job in the woodshop. And that way that men have with each other. Men who work hard, and measure the worth andvalue of another man by how hard he works. That mixture of toughness and tenderness of how men are together that shows itself in action and words can’t capture.
In a way, it’s an anti-capitalist movie. In other words, it’s a movie about two men who fall in love, but it’s not a gay movie. “Gay” has become a market niche, a commodity that you can buy. And, in fact, that you have to buy. If you want to be gay, you better clear our some space on your credit cards. This, of course, has implications for the leatherworld, too. John Ashcroft has done us a huge favor, ensuring that we won’t be assimilated into the sucking vortex anytime soon. For now, we’ll remain a counter-cultural experience. When the day comes that you wonder if you’re doing it “right,” whether your cell phone plan is the “right” cell phone plan for a leatherman (or leatherboy or leatherwoman or leatherwhatever), then you’ll know that dread day has come, and something precious and beautiful is gone forever
I also wonder if the movie will have an effect on our culture, the way movies used to have. People used to model what they saw on the big screen, finding in the depictions of Jimmy Stewart, Peter Fonda, Humphrey Bogart, James Dean, Charles Bronson, and so many others, ways to live their own lives. Gay men really haven’t had a lot of options here. Perhaps--and I realize I’m hoping for the moon and stars here--being gay in this the post-Brokeback world, won’t be seen as a terms of wardrobe, circuit parties, killer abs, and all sorts of fabulousness (which comes at a price always), but simply a matter of two men falling in love.
And it’s a political movie, too, having a similar effect on me as when I read Larry Kramer’s Reports From The Holocaust all those years ago. I will work to make this a world safe for Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist to fall in love.
Anyway. Go see the movie. I’ve buried it in enough verbiage.
Oh! And how cool is this? Just to make it clear, I’m not living in New York, Los Angeles, or San Francisco. Not even Seattle, Chicago, Houston, Miami, Atlanta, Philadelphia or Boston. I saw Brokeback Mountain in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Which is not exactly the Heartland, but believe me, we’re out there.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Most Likely To
At work today, my Bush-votin', Bible-thumpin' partner and I devised a fun little game to make the time pass. We took turns devising a scenario, then asking each other who among our co-workers would be the likliest candidate to take that role.
And I thought I'd pass it on to all of you!
So here's what you do. Call to mind a seemingly random collection of folks you know. People you work with, maybe. Or perhaps people you went to college with. Or everybody you had sex with this year. Any random group of people.
Now figure out which one is most likely to be described by each of the following...
•You'd most want to be stranded on a desert island with
•Robs a bank in broad daylight, gets away with several million dollars, and successfully makes it to South America scott free
•Will be elected to Congress in ten years
•Your cellmate during a ten year prison sentence
•Has a group of monks show up at the door announcing that the person is the next Dalai Lama
•Is with you on a plane that goes down in the Andes, doesn't make it, and to save yourself from starvation you have to... well... you gotta eat something.
•Wins the lottery! Then takes care of some debts, gives some gifts to friends and family, goes on a dream vacation, and gives the lion's share, several million dollars, to charity
•If this person gave you a briefcase and asked you to not look inside it but hold onto it for a few weeks until he or she can come and get it, you'd do it, no questions asked
•You'd go to if you desperately needed $500 and probably wouldn't be able to repay it anytime soon
•Will be the star of a successful and popular television show for children
•You'd use as a body shield if you were being shot at
•You'd drive cross country with
•Appears as a guest on Martha Stewart's show
•Runs into a burning building to save a mother and her two children
•Appears on a reality tv show
If you think up any more, let me know...
At work today, my Bush-votin', Bible-thumpin' partner and I devised a fun little game to make the time pass. We took turns devising a scenario, then asking each other who among our co-workers would be the likliest candidate to take that role.
And I thought I'd pass it on to all of you!
So here's what you do. Call to mind a seemingly random collection of folks you know. People you work with, maybe. Or perhaps people you went to college with. Or everybody you had sex with this year. Any random group of people.
Now figure out which one is most likely to be described by each of the following...
•You'd most want to be stranded on a desert island with
•Robs a bank in broad daylight, gets away with several million dollars, and successfully makes it to South America scott free
•Will be elected to Congress in ten years
•Your cellmate during a ten year prison sentence
•Has a group of monks show up at the door announcing that the person is the next Dalai Lama
•Is with you on a plane that goes down in the Andes, doesn't make it, and to save yourself from starvation you have to... well... you gotta eat something.
•Wins the lottery! Then takes care of some debts, gives some gifts to friends and family, goes on a dream vacation, and gives the lion's share, several million dollars, to charity
•If this person gave you a briefcase and asked you to not look inside it but hold onto it for a few weeks until he or she can come and get it, you'd do it, no questions asked
•You'd go to if you desperately needed $500 and probably wouldn't be able to repay it anytime soon
•Will be the star of a successful and popular television show for children
•You'd use as a body shield if you were being shot at
•You'd drive cross country with
•Appears as a guest on Martha Stewart's show
•Runs into a burning building to save a mother and her two children
•Appears on a reality tv show
If you think up any more, let me know...
I'm A Back Man, Butt...
I like men's backs. Well I remember the Saturday night after I threw a whip for the first time. There I was at the LURE (*sigh*). And it was all about backs. A nice lat spread, well worked traps, and I had to wipe the drool from my chin.
And it's been like that ever since. All about backs.
In fact, when men have asked me to whip their butts, I've declined. Nothing happened for me.
But recently, it's like I've been obsessed. I see a man with a nice meaty bubble butt, and any other thought I have goes out of my head. And then there's my demon lover. This... this... boy. Beefy. Shaved head. Italian or latin features, with full lips, dark eyes, and olive skin. And this beautiful round butt.
Now, I don't know a boy like that (although I'd like to), and in recent memory, I haven't run across a boy like this. I have no idea where he might be coming from, from somewhere deep in my imagination.
But I can see him clearly in my minds eye. Smiling at me, bending over, like over a sawhorse or the back of a sofa or something, and bracing himself. For me to whip his butt. Or take a belt to it. Or just give him a good spanking. Get that meaty boy butt nice and red. And then, get that beautiful rosebud right in the middle all puckered up and hungry. Then plunge right in.
So this is coming from where?
I can't guess.
I like men's backs. Well I remember the Saturday night after I threw a whip for the first time. There I was at the LURE (*sigh*). And it was all about backs. A nice lat spread, well worked traps, and I had to wipe the drool from my chin.
And it's been like that ever since. All about backs.
In fact, when men have asked me to whip their butts, I've declined. Nothing happened for me.
But recently, it's like I've been obsessed. I see a man with a nice meaty bubble butt, and any other thought I have goes out of my head. And then there's my demon lover. This... this... boy. Beefy. Shaved head. Italian or latin features, with full lips, dark eyes, and olive skin. And this beautiful round butt.
Now, I don't know a boy like that (although I'd like to), and in recent memory, I haven't run across a boy like this. I have no idea where he might be coming from, from somewhere deep in my imagination.
But I can see him clearly in my minds eye. Smiling at me, bending over, like over a sawhorse or the back of a sofa or something, and bracing himself. For me to whip his butt. Or take a belt to it. Or just give him a good spanking. Get that meaty boy butt nice and red. And then, get that beautiful rosebud right in the middle all puckered up and hungry. Then plunge right in.
So this is coming from where?
I can't guess.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Triple Super Banned In New Jersey
Oh man.
2005 is going out with a bang. Last night I was due in court in Frenchtown, New Jersey. Lest you forget, I was headed up to NYC a few weeks ago, and I was stopped for going 51 miles per hour in a 40 mile per hour zone.
Whatever, right?
Well, the nice police officer took my license, registration and insurance back to his patrol car to run me, and returned with the news that my driving privileges in New Jersey had been revoked. Apparently, I somehow had failed to pay a parking ticket I received in Jersey City two years ago.
Okay.
I did something you should never ever ever do. And now that I know better, I'll never do it again. I plead guilty.
I mean, was I going 51 miles per hour? Yessss. Had my driving privileges in New Jersey been yanked? Apparently so. So I was guilty.
Now, apparently if I had plead Not Guilty, it would have given the court leeway to cut me a break. I mean, this is all pretty severe for eleven miles over the speed limit and not feeding the meter, right?
And severe it was. A huge fine. And then the kicker. The judge told me that the laws of the state of New Jersey compelled him, he was sorry to say, to command me to forfeit my license for the next ten days.
God in heaven!
Nightengale, my buddy from work, who had kindly driven me to Frenchtown (I was anticipating the question, "Now, you didn't drive here, right?") gasped behind me. I just about passed out.
This is about a parking ticket!
I... I... I'm not a bad person!
How would I get to work? This would be tantamount to a Martha Stewart-style house arrest, no ankle bracelet needed. Only Martha didn't have her dad in the house with her.
Okay. The nice prosecutor managed to talk me down off the ledge. It seems that because I'm a Pennsylvania-licensed driver, a New Jersey court can't force me to surrender my license.
Be gone! You have no power here!
But, it turns out that that definitely does apply in New Jersey.
So... status quo, right?
Not quite, the nice prosecutor emphasized in the strongest possible terms. If I'm caught driving in New Jersey over the next ten days, I'll be put in handcuffs and taken to jail. It's an arrestable offense.
Not that I'm opposed to wearing handcuffs, and not like it wouldn't be the first time, but it could be extraordinarily inconvenient.
So damn.
On the one hand, that's not so bad. So I don't go to New Jersey for the next ten days. Big deal! What's in New Jersey? Like I'd really want to be nice to them and do Christmas shopping at the Deptford Mall after how shabbily they've treated me? No dice.
But y'see, New Jersey is pretty much between me and New York City. And I was planning on heading up to that fabled city to have my second date with that amazing man.
Amazing man and I talked it over on the phone. He said it wasn't worth it, although I strenuously disagreed. ("Those prison bars can't keep me from my man!") But, whatever.
If anyone out there has any contacts in Jersey City Municipal Court, they are urged to get in touch with me. Please. Please please please. I'm not asking for a fixed parking ticket (although that would be nice) just to find out how much I have to pay to get on good terms with the Garden State again.
Try getting the Jersey City Municipal Court on the phone. Just try that. Go 'head. G'wan. Try.
And you'll see what I'm up against.
Oh man.
2005 is going out with a bang. Last night I was due in court in Frenchtown, New Jersey. Lest you forget, I was headed up to NYC a few weeks ago, and I was stopped for going 51 miles per hour in a 40 mile per hour zone.
Whatever, right?
Well, the nice police officer took my license, registration and insurance back to his patrol car to run me, and returned with the news that my driving privileges in New Jersey had been revoked. Apparently, I somehow had failed to pay a parking ticket I received in Jersey City two years ago.
Okay.
I did something you should never ever ever do. And now that I know better, I'll never do it again. I plead guilty.
I mean, was I going 51 miles per hour? Yessss. Had my driving privileges in New Jersey been yanked? Apparently so. So I was guilty.
Now, apparently if I had plead Not Guilty, it would have given the court leeway to cut me a break. I mean, this is all pretty severe for eleven miles over the speed limit and not feeding the meter, right?
And severe it was. A huge fine. And then the kicker. The judge told me that the laws of the state of New Jersey compelled him, he was sorry to say, to command me to forfeit my license for the next ten days.
God in heaven!
Nightengale, my buddy from work, who had kindly driven me to Frenchtown (I was anticipating the question, "Now, you didn't drive here, right?") gasped behind me. I just about passed out.
This is about a parking ticket!
I... I... I'm not a bad person!
How would I get to work? This would be tantamount to a Martha Stewart-style house arrest, no ankle bracelet needed. Only Martha didn't have her dad in the house with her.
Okay. The nice prosecutor managed to talk me down off the ledge. It seems that because I'm a Pennsylvania-licensed driver, a New Jersey court can't force me to surrender my license.
Be gone! You have no power here!
But, it turns out that that definitely does apply in New Jersey.
So... status quo, right?
Not quite, the nice prosecutor emphasized in the strongest possible terms. If I'm caught driving in New Jersey over the next ten days, I'll be put in handcuffs and taken to jail. It's an arrestable offense.
Not that I'm opposed to wearing handcuffs, and not like it wouldn't be the first time, but it could be extraordinarily inconvenient.
So damn.
On the one hand, that's not so bad. So I don't go to New Jersey for the next ten days. Big deal! What's in New Jersey? Like I'd really want to be nice to them and do Christmas shopping at the Deptford Mall after how shabbily they've treated me? No dice.
But y'see, New Jersey is pretty much between me and New York City. And I was planning on heading up to that fabled city to have my second date with that amazing man.
Amazing man and I talked it over on the phone. He said it wasn't worth it, although I strenuously disagreed. ("Those prison bars can't keep me from my man!") But, whatever.
If anyone out there has any contacts in Jersey City Municipal Court, they are urged to get in touch with me. Please. Please please please. I'm not asking for a fixed parking ticket (although that would be nice) just to find out how much I have to pay to get on good terms with the Garden State again.
Try getting the Jersey City Municipal Court on the phone. Just try that. Go 'head. G'wan. Try.
And you'll see what I'm up against.
Mamas, Don't Let Your Boys Grow Up To Be...
At first, I was cold to Brokeback Mountain. Elvis Costello (whom I don't like much) had a song "Happy Lovin' Couples" that summed up my sentiments. Like I really wanna see a movie about two guys who meet and fall in love. I saw myself coming out of the movie muttering "Why not me?"
But I'm in. Totally in. Looks amazing, Ang Lee could probably claim the honor of my favorite director currently making movies, and the things I've read about it in reviews make it very compelling.
But I've got a beef. It's being referred to as "the gay cowboy movie," and everybody's going on and on about gay cowboys, including Concerned Women For America, who decry the assault on these paragons of American virtue.
But... No. From what I understand, they're not, in fact, cowboys. There are no cows in the movie. They're shepherds. They meet when they're looking after sheep.
A picayune point?
Maybe for most, but not for me.
A little story.
Back when I was in high school, the Administration decided that no one should graduate without declaring a Career Goal. Now, that sent me into a tailspin. It was absurd! I'm seventeen years old and I have to know with certainty what I want to do for the rest of my life? Uh uh.
I became a problem for my guidance counselor, long-suffering guy that he was. Everyone else assigned to him had complied. There was one blank box among all the boxes with check marks, and that was mine. He dragged me down to his office and said, "C'mon. Just pick something. Anything. Don't take this too seriously! If you could be anything at all, what would you be?"
"Okay. Anything, right? If I could be absolutely anything, I'd be a shepherd."
Well, that pretty much floored him.
I explained, "I think it would be great to be a shepherd! In the Spring, I'd pack up some books, and take my sheep up into the mountains, with my faithhful dog for company. I'd spend the summer reading, and looking after my sheep. Then, in the Fall, I'd gather up my flock, and head back down to town, spending the cold months among people. it would be the perfect life."
I remember his face being all circles: wide open eyes, gaping mouth.
He suggested another approach. There was a career aptitude test he wanted me to take. And so I did. I sat down, answering all the questions. Do you like to work indoors or outdoors? Do you like helping people? Do you enjoy learning new things? Do you want to work for animals? Do you like taking on individual responsibility?
He sent away the test for tabulation. It came back. My answers pointed to one clear career option: shepherd.
He found me a school where I could major in shepherding. It was in Montana. I think there are several in New Zealand.
So get it right. It's not the Gay Cowboy movie, it's the Gay Shepherd movie.
At first, I was cold to Brokeback Mountain. Elvis Costello (whom I don't like much) had a song "Happy Lovin' Couples" that summed up my sentiments. Like I really wanna see a movie about two guys who meet and fall in love. I saw myself coming out of the movie muttering "Why not me?"
But I'm in. Totally in. Looks amazing, Ang Lee could probably claim the honor of my favorite director currently making movies, and the things I've read about it in reviews make it very compelling.
But I've got a beef. It's being referred to as "the gay cowboy movie," and everybody's going on and on about gay cowboys, including Concerned Women For America, who decry the assault on these paragons of American virtue.
But... No. From what I understand, they're not, in fact, cowboys. There are no cows in the movie. They're shepherds. They meet when they're looking after sheep.
A picayune point?
Maybe for most, but not for me.
A little story.
Back when I was in high school, the Administration decided that no one should graduate without declaring a Career Goal. Now, that sent me into a tailspin. It was absurd! I'm seventeen years old and I have to know with certainty what I want to do for the rest of my life? Uh uh.
I became a problem for my guidance counselor, long-suffering guy that he was. Everyone else assigned to him had complied. There was one blank box among all the boxes with check marks, and that was mine. He dragged me down to his office and said, "C'mon. Just pick something. Anything. Don't take this too seriously! If you could be anything at all, what would you be?"
"Okay. Anything, right? If I could be absolutely anything, I'd be a shepherd."
Well, that pretty much floored him.
I explained, "I think it would be great to be a shepherd! In the Spring, I'd pack up some books, and take my sheep up into the mountains, with my faithhful dog for company. I'd spend the summer reading, and looking after my sheep. Then, in the Fall, I'd gather up my flock, and head back down to town, spending the cold months among people. it would be the perfect life."
I remember his face being all circles: wide open eyes, gaping mouth.
He suggested another approach. There was a career aptitude test he wanted me to take. And so I did. I sat down, answering all the questions. Do you like to work indoors or outdoors? Do you like helping people? Do you enjoy learning new things? Do you want to work for animals? Do you like taking on individual responsibility?
He sent away the test for tabulation. It came back. My answers pointed to one clear career option: shepherd.
He found me a school where I could major in shepherding. It was in Montana. I think there are several in New Zealand.
So get it right. It's not the Gay Cowboy movie, it's the Gay Shepherd movie.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
"One Chicken... Two Chickens... Three Chickens... Four... Five... Six... Seven Chickens! Great! Okay, So They're Just Eggs Right Now, But They Will Be Chickens!"
It's true!
Unbelievable as it might be, Starbucks is starting to irk me. None of the regulars from the summer are hanging there any more. And there's this new crew behind the counter. These... these... kids. It seems like there's a different crew every day. The manager went on maternity leave, and the two guys she left more or less in charge are idiots. I think they dip into the product too much. Leading to inane conversations at deafening decibles.
But heck... If I get thes job... If I start commuting into Philadelphia every day... Where am I gonna hang?
No doubt you're thinking "Duh! Like there are no Starbucks in Philadelphia?"
Of course there are. But none I've been in really has that cruise factor thing happening, y'know?
There was a place called Millenium Coffee, right in the middle of the so-called Gay-borhood, that I loved. But a month or so, it closed down. And I just have no idea where I'm gonna go for my latte, to read my NY Times, to see and be seen.
Ananotherthing with this possible new job... Clothes. I'm guessing that it will be no more Carhartts. i do have a selection of suits available to me, but what a pain in the ass. Most places are doing "business casual" these days. And hopefully this place will be no exception.
Now, back in NYC, this wouldn't be a problem. There were cool places to buy clothes. Funky clothes. Masculine but playful. And because the whole damn town is stylin' and profilin', wearing them wasn't a problem either. But in Philadelphia, I'm just worried that I'm going to end up in those damn striped shirts. I hate those striped shirts.
And the gym situation. Should I bid a fond farewell to Cornerstone Fitness in Furlong, Pennsylvania? Pick out a gym in Center City? The obvious option would be the 12th Street Gym. From what I understand, that's the Gay Gym. Sounds hateful, right? All kinds of crowded with idiots who camp out forever on a piece of equipment and don't re-rack their weights. But i'll give it a shot. See if I can get a day pass to check it out.
See, this kind of stuff makes me nuts. I'm a a creature of routine. And right now, I have my routine down. And to have to have to disrupt that totally... It makes me tired just thinking about it.
And where the heck will I have lunch every day?
Meanwhile, when I'm not dithering about gym and such, I've been doing some research on this organization. They look great! Really great! People I'd really enjoy working with.
Anyway, time to pick out stuff to wear on Monday.
Psychologists refer to all of this as 'binding anxiety.'
It's true!
Unbelievable as it might be, Starbucks is starting to irk me. None of the regulars from the summer are hanging there any more. And there's this new crew behind the counter. These... these... kids. It seems like there's a different crew every day. The manager went on maternity leave, and the two guys she left more or less in charge are idiots. I think they dip into the product too much. Leading to inane conversations at deafening decibles.
But heck... If I get thes job... If I start commuting into Philadelphia every day... Where am I gonna hang?
No doubt you're thinking "Duh! Like there are no Starbucks in Philadelphia?"
Of course there are. But none I've been in really has that cruise factor thing happening, y'know?
There was a place called Millenium Coffee, right in the middle of the so-called Gay-borhood, that I loved. But a month or so, it closed down. And I just have no idea where I'm gonna go for my latte, to read my NY Times, to see and be seen.
Ananotherthing with this possible new job... Clothes. I'm guessing that it will be no more Carhartts. i do have a selection of suits available to me, but what a pain in the ass. Most places are doing "business casual" these days. And hopefully this place will be no exception.
Now, back in NYC, this wouldn't be a problem. There were cool places to buy clothes. Funky clothes. Masculine but playful. And because the whole damn town is stylin' and profilin', wearing them wasn't a problem either. But in Philadelphia, I'm just worried that I'm going to end up in those damn striped shirts. I hate those striped shirts.
And the gym situation. Should I bid a fond farewell to Cornerstone Fitness in Furlong, Pennsylvania? Pick out a gym in Center City? The obvious option would be the 12th Street Gym. From what I understand, that's the Gay Gym. Sounds hateful, right? All kinds of crowded with idiots who camp out forever on a piece of equipment and don't re-rack their weights. But i'll give it a shot. See if I can get a day pass to check it out.
See, this kind of stuff makes me nuts. I'm a a creature of routine. And right now, I have my routine down. And to have to have to disrupt that totally... It makes me tired just thinking about it.
And where the heck will I have lunch every day?
Meanwhile, when I'm not dithering about gym and such, I've been doing some research on this organization. They look great! Really great! People I'd really enjoy working with.
Anyway, time to pick out stuff to wear on Monday.
Psychologists refer to all of this as 'binding anxiety.'
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Promise Of The New Year
I love New Years. It's one of my favorite holidays. Not being one for drunken revelry, I like it because it's a celebration of the passage of time, of marking change and transition, looking back over the journey you've taken around the sun during the last 365 days, and thinking about the one to come.
I'm still got a peaceful, easy feeling about the date I had this past Saturday with a great, great guy. And there's a new development. I've been sending out my resumé, and I got a bite. A non-profit in Philadelphia is looking for someone to do fundraising and what amounts to marketing and public relations. I head down to the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection on Monday.
So the past few days at work have been bittersweet. I didn't embark on this job search on a whim. It was pretty well thought out. A few recent developments have soured me some on Wuperior Soodcraft. Mostly on the nutty duo that run the place. But all those things seem distant and abstract. At the fore of my thoughts is the fact that I love the guys I work with, and I enjoy the work I do from 7 am to 3:30 pm. No matter what mood I'm in when I arrive, I leave smiling.
But, there is the money issue. It is just not easy making it on $10 an hour. My wee little paychecks just won't cover it, and I can't make them stretch. And it just doesn't allow me much in the way of possibilities. Not, to be sure, for Things. (I don't need more things. I've got plenty.) But heading out into the world. To MAL, to CLAW, to Inferno, to Florida, to Southern California, to Europe. Heck, a trip down to Philadelphia (parking: $14; coatcheck: $6; water and Red Bull: $12; gas: $15) seems out of range many weekends.
And gosh... returning to the world of non-profit management? Didn't I swear off that? Didn't I post here endlessly about never being chained to a desk again?
Well... yeah.
But here's the deal. I was burned out. It was harsh. I just couldn't approach things with any gusto. Two years in the blue collar world, working side-by-side with blue collar men, has taught me a lot. About focus. About always always always doing your best. About what it means to stand behind your work. About being part of a team. About looking always for opportuninties to shine. About the conviction and going with your gut, even when you're not sure of yourself.
And I've got a lot of skills. There are a lot of things that I'm really really good at, and many of them are valuable in the non-profit world. It's time to put them to work.
A conversation I had with the Baron von Philadelphia was a turning point, too. He observed that I am in what amounts to my prime earning years. I'm seasoned. I'm a known quantity. I've mastered many aspects that young'uns--despite their boundless energy--haven't yet. I've got to take advantage of that now, because it won't always be the place. Sometime in the future, when things aren't so rosy, then will be the time to stand aside and let some young buck have his or her shot, and I can go off and work with my hands.
And that makes sense.
So.
2006.
New man in my life. New job. Significantly enhanced income. It could be a good year.
I love New Years. It's one of my favorite holidays. Not being one for drunken revelry, I like it because it's a celebration of the passage of time, of marking change and transition, looking back over the journey you've taken around the sun during the last 365 days, and thinking about the one to come.
I'm still got a peaceful, easy feeling about the date I had this past Saturday with a great, great guy. And there's a new development. I've been sending out my resumé, and I got a bite. A non-profit in Philadelphia is looking for someone to do fundraising and what amounts to marketing and public relations. I head down to the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection on Monday.
So the past few days at work have been bittersweet. I didn't embark on this job search on a whim. It was pretty well thought out. A few recent developments have soured me some on Wuperior Soodcraft. Mostly on the nutty duo that run the place. But all those things seem distant and abstract. At the fore of my thoughts is the fact that I love the guys I work with, and I enjoy the work I do from 7 am to 3:30 pm. No matter what mood I'm in when I arrive, I leave smiling.
But, there is the money issue. It is just not easy making it on $10 an hour. My wee little paychecks just won't cover it, and I can't make them stretch. And it just doesn't allow me much in the way of possibilities. Not, to be sure, for Things. (I don't need more things. I've got plenty.) But heading out into the world. To MAL, to CLAW, to Inferno, to Florida, to Southern California, to Europe. Heck, a trip down to Philadelphia (parking: $14; coatcheck: $6; water and Red Bull: $12; gas: $15) seems out of range many weekends.
And gosh... returning to the world of non-profit management? Didn't I swear off that? Didn't I post here endlessly about never being chained to a desk again?
Well... yeah.
But here's the deal. I was burned out. It was harsh. I just couldn't approach things with any gusto. Two years in the blue collar world, working side-by-side with blue collar men, has taught me a lot. About focus. About always always always doing your best. About what it means to stand behind your work. About being part of a team. About looking always for opportuninties to shine. About the conviction and going with your gut, even when you're not sure of yourself.
And I've got a lot of skills. There are a lot of things that I'm really really good at, and many of them are valuable in the non-profit world. It's time to put them to work.
A conversation I had with the Baron von Philadelphia was a turning point, too. He observed that I am in what amounts to my prime earning years. I'm seasoned. I'm a known quantity. I've mastered many aspects that young'uns--despite their boundless energy--haven't yet. I've got to take advantage of that now, because it won't always be the place. Sometime in the future, when things aren't so rosy, then will be the time to stand aside and let some young buck have his or her shot, and I can go off and work with my hands.
And that makes sense.
So.
2006.
New man in my life. New job. Significantly enhanced income. It could be a good year.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
And Then Bang!
So, y'know... let's say you're in a dry spell. Like, it's been a long, long time since anything worthwhile has come your way. And, not like you've given up hope, but you just sorta are putting your attention in other areas. And doing your best to rationalize it all away.
But then, maybe you're trawling around on the internet, and this guy flags you down, right?
And let's say you pull up his profile, and right away... the pic he has posted... it's like, Woof! What a looker! And for a change, he's not in Antwerp or Ypsilanti or Guerneville or Brisbane, but up in NYC. Which is, like, doable, right?
And then, you read his profile. And he's submissive. But not in a goofy way. Just in a on-the-level, no-bones-about-it way. Know what I mean? And you're like, 'Cool.'
And so you start the whole deal of typing back and forth at each other. The mutual admiration thing gets going. And right away, you guys decide that you oughtta meet, right?
Okay. So then comes the part where you talk on the phone for the first time. Make or break, right? I mean, hot pic and all, but what if he has the same vocal inflections as your Aunt Helen? That would be a disaster, right? Total deal breaker. Like totally.
So you call him, or maybe he calls you, and his voice is like... Well, it's a great voice. A little bit of a cowboy twang to it even. But well spoken. Chooses his words well.
And so you're like blah-blah-blah, yakkity-yak-yak, and he's like blah-blah-blah, yakity-yak-yak, and then he says this great thing. He goes, "Well, let's not wordsmith this into oblivion. We'll talk more when we meet."
And so you're like, "Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. Cool. Till then."
So let's say it's like The Week Of, y'know? And you're getting your hopes up. And you hate that! Cuz like Buddhists say, "Expectations bring misery." And you know all about disappointment at this stage of the game, right?
I mean, it's all about connection. And the connection is there or it's not. And so often, it's like, on the internet, you're just typing up a frenzy, but then you meet the guy and it's like, "Hey. What's up. Cool. Yeah. Good to meet you, too." Right? Right??? And of course, when for him it's all about "Yes! He has a pulse! He's perfect!" then it gets all weird and complicated. But anyway, you're counting down the days. You're trying for balance. To be really chill about the whole thing.
But all the time, you can't help thinking... Y'know?
And so like, y'know how a lot of times you'll get into that weird frame of mind where you're almost psyching yourself out before the fact? Running through in your mind a list of all the reasons why he'll meet you and think, "Eh... Next!"? Well get this: let's say that this time, there's just none of that. You just... Well... You're just not in that headspace this time around...
Okay. So like, the day of. Big Day is here! Let's say that because he has a prior engagement that night, you plan to get there early and leave around six p.m., so it's really a day you're spending together, right?
And you're just feeling Good about the whole thing. But still, you're pulling up his profile again and again (Whoa! He posted some more pics! And they're really good... Damn... Is that neck cleavage? Does he have neck cleavage...?) And you're like looking for something you missed, right?
Oh. And say you're getting these reports from him. Cuz you gave him this list of things to do. Stuff like:
•Make sure his apartment is around 80 degrees when you arrive; (Did you know that 81°F. is the perfect temperature for being naked/ Truth! If it's below that or above that, your body has to work to maintain a temperature of 98.6°, although if you're wearing clothes, you'll want it cooler.
•Get a nice sharp haircut;
•Be prepared to work on a pair of oil-tanned boots;
•Have some cigars waiting for you.
Right?
And imagine if all week long he's giving you updates on all of those. ("Haircut appointment for 9 a.m. Friday morning." And, like, "Got your cigars today at JR's.")
So of course you'd be like, "Whoa... This guy's good, right?"
Okay, but then, let's say that just as you're about to head out the door and go to meet the guy, there's some unaccountable delay. Like, your father decides that this is the day to write Chrismas cards. And you hope he forgets it, but he doesn't, so just when you're heading out the door, here comes your dad with the address book, right?
But finally, you manage to get on the road. And you fight traffic the whole way (on a Saturday morning? Yes. On a Saturday morning.) And all the meters in his neighborhood, let's say, have a one hour limit. So you're like "Damn!" and you stick your jeep in a garage.
And let's say you find his building easy, and you take the elevator up, and then you see him for the first time. And you're like...
Well...
Let's say it works for you.
Like, a lot.
And so let's say you spend the day together.
And it goes great.
Like, really great.
Like, you guys talk, and it's like you've know each other for years. And let's say he's really bright, a guy you could learn a lot from. And, like, let's say you're so comfortable with him. And you do a scene. Tie him up. Some stuff like that. Nothing too heavy duty on the first date, right? And it just goes perfect. And let's say you don't waste any piss the whole day.
And, like, imagine if how like, when your body is touching his body, it's like so right. It just feels really good. And you realize how long it's been since you've felt that perfect perfect feeling. Like, a really long time. Like, way too long. But now, there it is. Perfect.
And then, like, it's time for him to get to his thing, and you've gotta hit the road, and you hold him, and you say, "I've been waiting for you a long time."
And right away, you're like, "Whoa! What did I just say?"
But say he's totally cool with that. And he's like, "Yeah. I've been waiting for you."
And you just know.
And you're not sure what it is you know, but you just know.
Y'know?
And so, like, you drive all the way home. And you're not all bent out of shape. You're not wired. (Okay, maybe you are a little bit, but that's because you stopped at Starbucks and got a quad venti latté, okay?) But you're not going apeshit or anything. You're just... like... Like, yeah. Yeah.
And it's perfect.
Y'know?
So, y'know... let's say you're in a dry spell. Like, it's been a long, long time since anything worthwhile has come your way. And, not like you've given up hope, but you just sorta are putting your attention in other areas. And doing your best to rationalize it all away.
But then, maybe you're trawling around on the internet, and this guy flags you down, right?
And let's say you pull up his profile, and right away... the pic he has posted... it's like, Woof! What a looker! And for a change, he's not in Antwerp or Ypsilanti or Guerneville or Brisbane, but up in NYC. Which is, like, doable, right?
And then, you read his profile. And he's submissive. But not in a goofy way. Just in a on-the-level, no-bones-about-it way. Know what I mean? And you're like, 'Cool.'
And so you start the whole deal of typing back and forth at each other. The mutual admiration thing gets going. And right away, you guys decide that you oughtta meet, right?
Okay. So then comes the part where you talk on the phone for the first time. Make or break, right? I mean, hot pic and all, but what if he has the same vocal inflections as your Aunt Helen? That would be a disaster, right? Total deal breaker. Like totally.
So you call him, or maybe he calls you, and his voice is like... Well, it's a great voice. A little bit of a cowboy twang to it even. But well spoken. Chooses his words well.
And so you're like blah-blah-blah, yakkity-yak-yak, and he's like blah-blah-blah, yakity-yak-yak, and then he says this great thing. He goes, "Well, let's not wordsmith this into oblivion. We'll talk more when we meet."
And so you're like, "Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. Cool. Till then."
So let's say it's like The Week Of, y'know? And you're getting your hopes up. And you hate that! Cuz like Buddhists say, "Expectations bring misery." And you know all about disappointment at this stage of the game, right?
I mean, it's all about connection. And the connection is there or it's not. And so often, it's like, on the internet, you're just typing up a frenzy, but then you meet the guy and it's like, "Hey. What's up. Cool. Yeah. Good to meet you, too." Right? Right??? And of course, when for him it's all about "Yes! He has a pulse! He's perfect!" then it gets all weird and complicated. But anyway, you're counting down the days. You're trying for balance. To be really chill about the whole thing.
But all the time, you can't help thinking... Y'know?
And so like, y'know how a lot of times you'll get into that weird frame of mind where you're almost psyching yourself out before the fact? Running through in your mind a list of all the reasons why he'll meet you and think, "Eh... Next!"? Well get this: let's say that this time, there's just none of that. You just... Well... You're just not in that headspace this time around...
Okay. So like, the day of. Big Day is here! Let's say that because he has a prior engagement that night, you plan to get there early and leave around six p.m., so it's really a day you're spending together, right?
And you're just feeling Good about the whole thing. But still, you're pulling up his profile again and again (Whoa! He posted some more pics! And they're really good... Damn... Is that neck cleavage? Does he have neck cleavage...?) And you're like looking for something you missed, right?
Oh. And say you're getting these reports from him. Cuz you gave him this list of things to do. Stuff like:
•Make sure his apartment is around 80 degrees when you arrive; (Did you know that 81°F. is the perfect temperature for being naked/ Truth! If it's below that or above that, your body has to work to maintain a temperature of 98.6°, although if you're wearing clothes, you'll want it cooler.
•Get a nice sharp haircut;
•Be prepared to work on a pair of oil-tanned boots;
•Have some cigars waiting for you.
Right?
And imagine if all week long he's giving you updates on all of those. ("Haircut appointment for 9 a.m. Friday morning." And, like, "Got your cigars today at JR's.")
So of course you'd be like, "Whoa... This guy's good, right?"
Okay, but then, let's say that just as you're about to head out the door and go to meet the guy, there's some unaccountable delay. Like, your father decides that this is the day to write Chrismas cards. And you hope he forgets it, but he doesn't, so just when you're heading out the door, here comes your dad with the address book, right?
But finally, you manage to get on the road. And you fight traffic the whole way (on a Saturday morning? Yes. On a Saturday morning.) And all the meters in his neighborhood, let's say, have a one hour limit. So you're like "Damn!" and you stick your jeep in a garage.
And let's say you find his building easy, and you take the elevator up, and then you see him for the first time. And you're like...
Well...
Let's say it works for you.
Like, a lot.
And so let's say you spend the day together.
And it goes great.
Like, really great.
Like, you guys talk, and it's like you've know each other for years. And let's say he's really bright, a guy you could learn a lot from. And, like, let's say you're so comfortable with him. And you do a scene. Tie him up. Some stuff like that. Nothing too heavy duty on the first date, right? And it just goes perfect. And let's say you don't waste any piss the whole day.
And, like, imagine if how like, when your body is touching his body, it's like so right. It just feels really good. And you realize how long it's been since you've felt that perfect perfect feeling. Like, a really long time. Like, way too long. But now, there it is. Perfect.
And then, like, it's time for him to get to his thing, and you've gotta hit the road, and you hold him, and you say, "I've been waiting for you a long time."
And right away, you're like, "Whoa! What did I just say?"
But say he's totally cool with that. And he's like, "Yeah. I've been waiting for you."
And you just know.
And you're not sure what it is you know, but you just know.
Y'know?
And so, like, you drive all the way home. And you're not all bent out of shape. You're not wired. (Okay, maybe you are a little bit, but that's because you stopped at Starbucks and got a quad venti latté, okay?) But you're not going apeshit or anything. You're just... like... Like, yeah. Yeah.
And it's perfect.
Y'know?
Thursday, December 08, 2005
So Not Hot
Yesterday after work, and after Starbucks, I headed to the gym. I've been going way easy lately, since I'm battling a cold. And I... uh... read somewhere that men with my body type--I am an ectomorph!--have to worry about overtraining more than anything else. It's about short, focused workouts with heavy weights. Or something. Not like I'm any closer to breaking 190 or anything.
Anyway, the plan was stretching, chest, steamroom, and shaving. Stretching was great. But stretching is always great. And did a good chest workout; great pump and all. So then it was time for the the steamroom. I headed for the lockerroom and right off the bat, I hit the button and got the steam going. (I like a mature steam.)
Doffed my clothes, stashed them in my locker, and took a nice shower. As I was coming out of the shower, I noticed this guy, carrying a newspaper, heading towards the steamroom.
Uh oh.
I hate sharing the steamroom.
O that it were only that.
In the steamroom, I found a guy sitting on the bench, with the steam off, reading the paper.
I repeat: With the steam off.
I went into a tailspin. And quicky.
I plopped down next to him, trying to figure out how to play this. Like, "'Scuse me, mind if I turn the steam on for a bit, warm it up in here?"
Of course he'd mind, I reasoned, you can't have a newspaper in the steamroom.
Okay. Surely he'd realize that the temperature was dropping. The steamroom is generally blazing hot. Already, it was sort of like getting into a car parked in the sun on a July afternoon. And the temperature was dropping.
Time passed. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.
He finished up the sports section (of USAToday, of course) and headed into the business pages.
Now, that's just plain rude!
With my finger, next to me on the bench, I inscribed R-U-D-E. Then I-N-C-O-N-S-I-D-E-R-A-T-E. Then A-S-S-H-O-L-E.
Twenty minutes. Twenty-five minutes.
By now, the steamroom wasn't much more than balmy.
At this point, I was boiling. Saying something was off the table. I didn't trust myself. "Excuse me, Buddy! I hope you don't mind if I put the steam on just for a minute... By gosh, it's not much warmer in here than it is out in the lockerroom! So, would that be okay, you stupid worthless sack of vomitus? You plague upon humanity! You mindless inconsiderate perfect storm of idiocy!!"
But I had to get going. My father must have his dinner! I threw in the towel, so to speak, and headed out to shave. I was just about to lather up when my steamroom buddy emerged.
I couldn't help noticing that he didn't have his paper with him.
A ha! Got him. I visualized retrieving his soggy paper from the steamroom and presenting it to him in the lockerroom, saying something saccharine like, "Oh excuse me, you left your paper in the steamroom!"
But no sooner had I formulated the plan than he peed and headed back in for round two.
He'll pay for this. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day. He's going to pay for this.
Yesterday after work, and after Starbucks, I headed to the gym. I've been going way easy lately, since I'm battling a cold. And I... uh... read somewhere that men with my body type--I am an ectomorph!--have to worry about overtraining more than anything else. It's about short, focused workouts with heavy weights. Or something. Not like I'm any closer to breaking 190 or anything.
Anyway, the plan was stretching, chest, steamroom, and shaving. Stretching was great. But stretching is always great. And did a good chest workout; great pump and all. So then it was time for the the steamroom. I headed for the lockerroom and right off the bat, I hit the button and got the steam going. (I like a mature steam.)
Doffed my clothes, stashed them in my locker, and took a nice shower. As I was coming out of the shower, I noticed this guy, carrying a newspaper, heading towards the steamroom.
Uh oh.
I hate sharing the steamroom.
O that it were only that.
In the steamroom, I found a guy sitting on the bench, with the steam off, reading the paper.
I repeat: With the steam off.
I went into a tailspin. And quicky.
I plopped down next to him, trying to figure out how to play this. Like, "'Scuse me, mind if I turn the steam on for a bit, warm it up in here?"
Of course he'd mind, I reasoned, you can't have a newspaper in the steamroom.
Okay. Surely he'd realize that the temperature was dropping. The steamroom is generally blazing hot. Already, it was sort of like getting into a car parked in the sun on a July afternoon. And the temperature was dropping.
Time passed. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.
He finished up the sports section (of USAToday, of course) and headed into the business pages.
Now, that's just plain rude!
With my finger, next to me on the bench, I inscribed R-U-D-E. Then I-N-C-O-N-S-I-D-E-R-A-T-E. Then A-S-S-H-O-L-E.
Twenty minutes. Twenty-five minutes.
By now, the steamroom wasn't much more than balmy.
At this point, I was boiling. Saying something was off the table. I didn't trust myself. "Excuse me, Buddy! I hope you don't mind if I put the steam on just for a minute... By gosh, it's not much warmer in here than it is out in the lockerroom! So, would that be okay, you stupid worthless sack of vomitus? You plague upon humanity! You mindless inconsiderate perfect storm of idiocy!!"
But I had to get going. My father must have his dinner! I threw in the towel, so to speak, and headed out to shave. I was just about to lather up when my steamroom buddy emerged.
I couldn't help noticing that he didn't have his paper with him.
A ha! Got him. I visualized retrieving his soggy paper from the steamroom and presenting it to him in the lockerroom, saying something saccharine like, "Oh excuse me, you left your paper in the steamroom!"
But no sooner had I formulated the plan than he peed and headed back in for round two.
He'll pay for this. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day. He's going to pay for this.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Worth A Thousand Words
A while ago, I posted on the phenomenon of guys illustrating their online profiles with pictures of themselves flipping a bird at the camera. (I click close right then and there. Nuts to you, too, Buddy.) And a long long time ago, I wrote about the odd frequency that profile pics in the buff are taken in the bathroom. (I figured that mystery out! They want to see how they look in the mirror, and that's where the mirror is.)
Here's a new one I've noticed. There's this... uh... thing going on. These pictures of guys, either naked or scantilly clad, like chaps or whatever, outside in the snow.
What's up with that? Hot to be cold? I fail to understand.
Hottie Alert
Oh man. The star of Kitchen Confidential on Fox, Bradley Cooper, is totally smokin'! I would definitely be up for cooking up something with him.
A while ago, I posted on the phenomenon of guys illustrating their online profiles with pictures of themselves flipping a bird at the camera. (I click close right then and there. Nuts to you, too, Buddy.) And a long long time ago, I wrote about the odd frequency that profile pics in the buff are taken in the bathroom. (I figured that mystery out! They want to see how they look in the mirror, and that's where the mirror is.)
Here's a new one I've noticed. There's this... uh... thing going on. These pictures of guys, either naked or scantilly clad, like chaps or whatever, outside in the snow.
What's up with that? Hot to be cold? I fail to understand.
Hottie Alert
Oh man. The star of Kitchen Confidential on Fox, Bradley Cooper, is totally smokin'! I would definitely be up for cooking up something with him.
Bless You!
A thought I had on my drive home from work/Starbucks tonight, as the first flakes of snow were falling.
I'm not alone in my belief that in SM, we are approaching something sacred and holy. It's transformative, we feel ourselves to be a part of something greater to ourselves, and we touch something beyond words.
With me so far?
Cool.
Now theologically, an action like this is referred to as a "sacrement." A sacred act. In some traditions, sacrements are specifically listed, and their forms are prescribed. Think Baptism, Marriage, Last Rites, the Lord's Supper.
Here's the insight: with the prescribed forms of any sacrement, there are a couple of common elements: one is that the person receiving the sacrement is charged with a mission. And the other is that it comes with a benediction, or blessing.
Huh.
I think that's pretty cool.
So if we really really wanted to get technical about it, the sacred scenes we do are--most of'em--incomplete. The charge and the blessing are either merely implied or missing altogether.
So what if we change that? What if, the next time you whip some lucky bottom, or bind him or her with your ropes, or nourish him or her with your piss, or send him or her to seventh heaven with needles piercing the skin, you prepare yourself, when all is said and done, when you're both sitting their sweated, stars in your eyes, grinning like fools at each other, to impart a blessing? Like, "From now on, you're heart will never break again," or "I will always be in your corner," or, "I will hold you in my heart forever," or, "No more will you be troubled by self-doubt."
And the mission. It might be good for the bottom to think up what the mission might be. What he or she will take into the world, and offer as a gift henceforth. C'mon, you've just received a great gift, and with every gift comes a task. Read your mythology! "When you (I) leave this Holy Place and go out into the world, I will try to ease the pain of the first suffering person whom God places in my path." "I will show kindness and compassion to the next person who treats me with malice and spite." "I will spend time with someone who is lonely."
And hey, who says the bottom can't turn around and offer a blessing to the sublime sadist who gave of himself (or herself)? And if the Top wants the scene to really mean something, think hard about what task you might take on.
As with sacrements as they are understood in the religious sense, that extends the scene well beyond the sconce- and eye-bolt festooned walls of the dungeon. And out into a cold, cold world. And deeply into your life.
A thought I had on my drive home from work/Starbucks tonight, as the first flakes of snow were falling.
I'm not alone in my belief that in SM, we are approaching something sacred and holy. It's transformative, we feel ourselves to be a part of something greater to ourselves, and we touch something beyond words.
With me so far?
Cool.
Now theologically, an action like this is referred to as a "sacrement." A sacred act. In some traditions, sacrements are specifically listed, and their forms are prescribed. Think Baptism, Marriage, Last Rites, the Lord's Supper.
Here's the insight: with the prescribed forms of any sacrement, there are a couple of common elements: one is that the person receiving the sacrement is charged with a mission. And the other is that it comes with a benediction, or blessing.
Huh.
I think that's pretty cool.
So if we really really wanted to get technical about it, the sacred scenes we do are--most of'em--incomplete. The charge and the blessing are either merely implied or missing altogether.
So what if we change that? What if, the next time you whip some lucky bottom, or bind him or her with your ropes, or nourish him or her with your piss, or send him or her to seventh heaven with needles piercing the skin, you prepare yourself, when all is said and done, when you're both sitting their sweated, stars in your eyes, grinning like fools at each other, to impart a blessing? Like, "From now on, you're heart will never break again," or "I will always be in your corner," or, "I will hold you in my heart forever," or, "No more will you be troubled by self-doubt."
And the mission. It might be good for the bottom to think up what the mission might be. What he or she will take into the world, and offer as a gift henceforth. C'mon, you've just received a great gift, and with every gift comes a task. Read your mythology! "When you (I) leave this Holy Place and go out into the world, I will try to ease the pain of the first suffering person whom God places in my path." "I will show kindness and compassion to the next person who treats me with malice and spite." "I will spend time with someone who is lonely."
And hey, who says the bottom can't turn around and offer a blessing to the sublime sadist who gave of himself (or herself)? And if the Top wants the scene to really mean something, think hard about what task you might take on.
As with sacrements as they are understood in the religious sense, that extends the scene well beyond the sconce- and eye-bolt festooned walls of the dungeon. And out into a cold, cold world. And deeply into your life.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Banned In New Jersey!
As in, me.
Yesterday, I was making a trip into NYC. An overnighter, so I dropped off Faithful Companion at doggie lock-up, then got on the road. The route that I usually take is head up River Road and cross the river into Frenchtown, New Jersey, head up Route 513, and twelve miles into New Jersey, I pick up I-78, and it's a straight shot to the Holland Tunnel.
So there I was, coming out of Frenchtown. As you come up the hill, it's a nice straight road. And a speed trap. As I found out. The cop pulled me over for doing 51 in a 40 mile an hour zone. I said, "Forty? Are you sure? I thought it was forty-five back there?"
"Well," he said, "that still puts you at six miles an hour over the speed limit."
Right.
So he takes my license, insurance card, and registration, and goes back to his car to write me up.
And then he comes back. "Are you aware," he asks, "that your driving privileges have been revoked in the State of New Jersey?"
Say what?
I was informed that because I had failed to pay a parking ticket in Jersey City, New Jersey, the State of New Jersey is empowered to forbid me to drive on their highways and byways.
I'm banned in New Jersey.
The police officer asked if there was someone I could call to pick me up, since he couldn't let me drive. Because I was in New Jersey.
Say what?
Of course there's nobody I could call. My dad doesn't drive at this point, and even if he did, the idea of directing him to Frenchtown, New Jersey... Heaven help us all.
At this point, I started to get verrrrry worried, picturing myself walking back to Pennsylvania. So I started to get all beggy and pleady. And, yeah, mentioned... umm... the fact that I'm taking care of my eighty-year-old-home-bound father. It just slipped out.
So Officer Hupka (that was really his name) was feeling generous. He told me that he would follow me to the bridge and I wasn't allowed back in New Jersey until I get those Jersey City parking tickets resolved. So that's what we did. I drove, slowly, with the squad car following behind me, down to the bridge. He sat there and watched me drive onto the bridge and out of New Jersey.
*sigh*
I'll miss New Jersey. It will now take me about seven hours to get to New York. No more Jersey Shore in the summer time. And I had such a blast at the Mr. New Jersey Leather contest in Asbury Park.
Okay. So I'll give money I don't have to resolve the parking ticket problem, and I'll be able to go to New Jersey again. Like, to my trial on the charges of speeding on December 20th.
But what is going on with me? This stuff never used to happen to me. What is going on with this string of bad luck? I mean, c'mon! Is there a message here? Something I'm doing wrong? It's gotta break though. Something's gotta give.
As in, me.
Yesterday, I was making a trip into NYC. An overnighter, so I dropped off Faithful Companion at doggie lock-up, then got on the road. The route that I usually take is head up River Road and cross the river into Frenchtown, New Jersey, head up Route 513, and twelve miles into New Jersey, I pick up I-78, and it's a straight shot to the Holland Tunnel.
So there I was, coming out of Frenchtown. As you come up the hill, it's a nice straight road. And a speed trap. As I found out. The cop pulled me over for doing 51 in a 40 mile an hour zone. I said, "Forty? Are you sure? I thought it was forty-five back there?"
"Well," he said, "that still puts you at six miles an hour over the speed limit."
Right.
So he takes my license, insurance card, and registration, and goes back to his car to write me up.
And then he comes back. "Are you aware," he asks, "that your driving privileges have been revoked in the State of New Jersey?"
Say what?
I was informed that because I had failed to pay a parking ticket in Jersey City, New Jersey, the State of New Jersey is empowered to forbid me to drive on their highways and byways.
I'm banned in New Jersey.
The police officer asked if there was someone I could call to pick me up, since he couldn't let me drive. Because I was in New Jersey.
Say what?
Of course there's nobody I could call. My dad doesn't drive at this point, and even if he did, the idea of directing him to Frenchtown, New Jersey... Heaven help us all.
At this point, I started to get verrrrry worried, picturing myself walking back to Pennsylvania. So I started to get all beggy and pleady. And, yeah, mentioned... umm... the fact that I'm taking care of my eighty-year-old-home-bound father. It just slipped out.
So Officer Hupka (that was really his name) was feeling generous. He told me that he would follow me to the bridge and I wasn't allowed back in New Jersey until I get those Jersey City parking tickets resolved. So that's what we did. I drove, slowly, with the squad car following behind me, down to the bridge. He sat there and watched me drive onto the bridge and out of New Jersey.
*sigh*
I'll miss New Jersey. It will now take me about seven hours to get to New York. No more Jersey Shore in the summer time. And I had such a blast at the Mr. New Jersey Leather contest in Asbury Park.
Okay. So I'll give money I don't have to resolve the parking ticket problem, and I'll be able to go to New Jersey again. Like, to my trial on the charges of speeding on December 20th.
But what is going on with me? This stuff never used to happen to me. What is going on with this string of bad luck? I mean, c'mon! Is there a message here? Something I'm doing wrong? It's gotta break though. Something's gotta give.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Special Day!
...And you missed it! Probably.
Y'see, Wednesday, November 30th, was the Feast of Saint Andrew.
And you're thinking, "Soooo... Like... I'm not scots."
Yeah yeah yeah. He's the patron saint of Scotland (his relics supposedly ended up there), and of Russia (he supposedly made a pilgrimage there). The New Testament tells us he was a fisherman (he's patron of anglers, too), and was the brother of fellow Apostle Simon Peter, and was a follower of John the Baptist before he was one of Jesus' disciples.
Okay. That's where it starts to get good. A follower of John the Baptist. When I was thinking of becoming a Benedictine Monk (long story), one of the things that alarmed and enthralled me was that I would be asked to take a new name in religious life. No longer would I be Drew, but I'd become... some saint's name. I toyed with the idea of the gender-bending Boniface (hid out in a convent disguising himself as a nun for decades), and I sort of liked Drogo, who was a Belgian shepherd, but thought that sounded a wee bit like some martian assasin that Ming the Merciless would send after Flash Gorden). And so I settled on John the Baptist. (I was a francophile then, so even though they were English Benedictines, I'd opt for Jean-Baptiste.)
Why John the Baptist?
Duh! How cool was John the Baptist? He was totally Out There! Running around in the desert (!) wearing goat skin (kinda like the biblical equivalent of chaps if you ask me), eating locusts and wild honey, and calling the elite of his day vipers. And doing that thing, dunking people in the Jordan River. Probably naked, right? Long time readers of Singletails will remember the poem I wrote for Special Guy way back when in the early months of this blog, a homoerotic meditation on John baptizing Christ. (Damn I wish I could meet a man who would inspire me to write poetry again.)
So anyway, Andrew was probably something of a wildman disciple. Maybe taking out the old goatskin and putting it on now and then.
But here's the kicker. Obviously. He was martyred by pagans who lashed him to a saltire, an X-shaped cross. He preached, from the cross, for a few days before he died.
See? The Saint Andrew's Cross!
What looks as good as a man lashed to a Saint Andrew's Cross? For how many of us did installing that cross mark a major transition in our lives? Remember the first time you stretched out your arms, your mouth dry, breathing hard, anticipating your first whipping or flogging or whatever?
So here's my recommendation. I think we should add a little something to the list of things that Andrew is patron of. Namely, SM. SM needs a patron saint! If he can watch out for those fishermen, he can look after all of this, too.
Oh, another bit of Andrew lore involves marriage. If a woman sleeps naked on Saint Andrew's day, she will dream of the man she'll marry (say some germans). And an unmarried woman should note where she hears a barking dog on St. Andrew's night, because her future husband will come from that direction (say some scots). And english children have some nutty thing they do with floating tea cups. Same deal though.
So Andrew is already all about looking for that big connection. He wants to see it happen. And Connection is what we're all about, right folks?
Here's our little Prayer To Saint Andrew...
Saint Andrew, fisherman who became a fisher of men,
guide us on the path we follow, as we seek intensity, intimacy,
excellence, and exhilaration; may your cross always mark for us
a transition to a new life; send us dreams always of the one who
will come and change our lives, giving us a future unimaginable.
Blessed Saint Andrew: Pray For Us.
...And you missed it! Probably.
Y'see, Wednesday, November 30th, was the Feast of Saint Andrew.
And you're thinking, "Soooo... Like... I'm not scots."
Yeah yeah yeah. He's the patron saint of Scotland (his relics supposedly ended up there), and of Russia (he supposedly made a pilgrimage there). The New Testament tells us he was a fisherman (he's patron of anglers, too), and was the brother of fellow Apostle Simon Peter, and was a follower of John the Baptist before he was one of Jesus' disciples.
Okay. That's where it starts to get good. A follower of John the Baptist. When I was thinking of becoming a Benedictine Monk (long story), one of the things that alarmed and enthralled me was that I would be asked to take a new name in religious life. No longer would I be Drew, but I'd become... some saint's name. I toyed with the idea of the gender-bending Boniface (hid out in a convent disguising himself as a nun for decades), and I sort of liked Drogo, who was a Belgian shepherd, but thought that sounded a wee bit like some martian assasin that Ming the Merciless would send after Flash Gorden). And so I settled on John the Baptist. (I was a francophile then, so even though they were English Benedictines, I'd opt for Jean-Baptiste.)
Why John the Baptist?
Duh! How cool was John the Baptist? He was totally Out There! Running around in the desert (!) wearing goat skin (kinda like the biblical equivalent of chaps if you ask me), eating locusts and wild honey, and calling the elite of his day vipers. And doing that thing, dunking people in the Jordan River. Probably naked, right? Long time readers of Singletails will remember the poem I wrote for Special Guy way back when in the early months of this blog, a homoerotic meditation on John baptizing Christ. (Damn I wish I could meet a man who would inspire me to write poetry again.)
So anyway, Andrew was probably something of a wildman disciple. Maybe taking out the old goatskin and putting it on now and then.
But here's the kicker. Obviously. He was martyred by pagans who lashed him to a saltire, an X-shaped cross. He preached, from the cross, for a few days before he died.
See? The Saint Andrew's Cross!
What looks as good as a man lashed to a Saint Andrew's Cross? For how many of us did installing that cross mark a major transition in our lives? Remember the first time you stretched out your arms, your mouth dry, breathing hard, anticipating your first whipping or flogging or whatever?
So here's my recommendation. I think we should add a little something to the list of things that Andrew is patron of. Namely, SM. SM needs a patron saint! If he can watch out for those fishermen, he can look after all of this, too.
Oh, another bit of Andrew lore involves marriage. If a woman sleeps naked on Saint Andrew's day, she will dream of the man she'll marry (say some germans). And an unmarried woman should note where she hears a barking dog on St. Andrew's night, because her future husband will come from that direction (say some scots). And english children have some nutty thing they do with floating tea cups. Same deal though.
So Andrew is already all about looking for that big connection. He wants to see it happen. And Connection is what we're all about, right folks?
Here's our little Prayer To Saint Andrew...
Saint Andrew, fisherman who became a fisher of men,
guide us on the path we follow, as we seek intensity, intimacy,
excellence, and exhilaration; may your cross always mark for us
a transition to a new life; send us dreams always of the one who
will come and change our lives, giving us a future unimaginable.
Blessed Saint Andrew: Pray For Us.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Ahhhh... Art!
So today, I wound down my fabulous five day weekend with something I've long wanted to do. With Eagle, I made a trip to the DIA Foundation's amazing site in Beacon, New York. DIA:Beacon is a former industrial space taken over by the DIA Foundation, supporters of some of the greatest artists working today. For maximal fans of minimalism like myself, it's pretty much the best there is. DIA:Beacon opened a year and a half ago, and I've wanted to go ever since. But I didn't really want to go alone.
Talking to Eagle a few days ago, he mentioned that he was hoping to go to the new MoMA in NYC. I suggested DIA instead, and he was up for it. We had planned to go on yesterday, but he was in a bad headspace. So today was the day.
And it's amazing. Put it on your list. A must see. An incredible site on the Hudson, a wee fifty miles north of NYC.
My favorites included Walter DeMaria, creator of the lightning field; Michael Heizer (Wow! WOW!!!); Fred Sandback (...it's just string! Brilliant!); Gerhard Richter (Ohhh. Ahhhhhh... I see); Robert Smithson (visionary man that he was, he of the spiral jetty). But of course, topping the list is the Man of Steel, Richard Serra. These incredible, monumental udulating steel forms. So sensuous. So strong. So masculine. My breathing got shallow. I'm sure my pupils dilated. It's an great experience.
And this art thing. It's all about noticing. About seeing.
I'll tell you what. Right now, I couldn't say which was more important to me, SM or minimalist art.
How about that?
So today, I wound down my fabulous five day weekend with something I've long wanted to do. With Eagle, I made a trip to the DIA Foundation's amazing site in Beacon, New York. DIA:Beacon is a former industrial space taken over by the DIA Foundation, supporters of some of the greatest artists working today. For maximal fans of minimalism like myself, it's pretty much the best there is. DIA:Beacon opened a year and a half ago, and I've wanted to go ever since. But I didn't really want to go alone.
Talking to Eagle a few days ago, he mentioned that he was hoping to go to the new MoMA in NYC. I suggested DIA instead, and he was up for it. We had planned to go on yesterday, but he was in a bad headspace. So today was the day.
And it's amazing. Put it on your list. A must see. An incredible site on the Hudson, a wee fifty miles north of NYC.
My favorites included Walter DeMaria, creator of the lightning field; Michael Heizer (Wow! WOW!!!); Fred Sandback (...it's just string! Brilliant!); Gerhard Richter (Ohhh. Ahhhhhh... I see); Robert Smithson (visionary man that he was, he of the spiral jetty). But of course, topping the list is the Man of Steel, Richard Serra. These incredible, monumental udulating steel forms. So sensuous. So strong. So masculine. My breathing got shallow. I'm sure my pupils dilated. It's an great experience.
And this art thing. It's all about noticing. About seeing.
I'll tell you what. Right now, I couldn't say which was more important to me, SM or minimalist art.
How about that?
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Santa Saturday Rocks!
This just in from the annual event hosted by the Bucks MC down in New Hope... me!
Okay. It was chilly. In years past, at the Cartwheel, it was pretty much contained by tents or downright indoors, so the only time the cold weather was a problem was waiting for the long, long, long line to get in to move you to the door. This year, at the Raven, it was more of an indoor/outdoor event.
My wardrobe inspiration was to wear the wetsuit singlet my Sir gave me. I had it on, and it looked great, but at the last minute I reconsidered. Instead, I opted for my neoprene uniform shirt and pants from Nasty Pig. Alas, neoprene does nothing in the way of heat retention, but I was slightly warmer than I would have been running around in a singlet. And I was cold most of the time. Even colder than I was at Dore Alley in SF. And that's cold!
But I kept a stiff upper lip, and solicited offers to 'keep me warm' from several of the hot men in attendance. Another thing to love about bears: they keep you warm!
And everybody was there. Great to see all those guys so much. At the risk of... ...whatever, I'm gonna go on record as saying that my exile here in the howling wilderness makes me realize that I love these men, my fellow travelers on this leather odyssey. Truly I do. I'm nourished and sustained by seeing them a few times a year, odd as that may be. Being greeted by a hot man decked out in leather by name, wearing a big welcoming smile on his face... it's the tonic I need to live.
But there was one tragic thing: no meatball sandwiches! Those amazing, amazing meatball sandwiches were not to be found this year. Just hotdogs and sausage sandwiches. I made do with hotdogs (of course the Bucks MC had saur kraut!), and when I asked, I was told that the meatball sandwiches were a bit too messy last year. I hearby offer to help with clean-up if it would mean their reappearance next year. But, hotdogs were only $2, so I had like five of them. With saur kraut and mustard, just the way I like'em.
All the action, though not much in the way of warmth, was in one big tent this year. By 'action,' I'm referring to the auction and drag show. I tend to tune this out. Having been reared in the midst of the East Village drag scene of the late '80s and early '90s, the whole glamorous show tunes thing doesn't move me much. Not demented and twisted enough for my tastes. And the auction items mostly seem to consist of granny afgans. There must be a crocheting fool in the ranks of the Bucks MC, who at this moment is working away at his granny afgan offerings for next year.
But at one point, I heard the MC announce that the next item up for auction was a set of irons, wrist and ankle, and the accompanying allen wrench. I think the last words I heard before I lost consciousness were, "and it looks like pretty good welding on these."
My sincere apologies to all the guys who were unfortunately In My Way as I made my way to the auction area. I hope your injuries weren't too severe, and that you received medical attention without too much of a delay.
The bidding started at $10. Ten dollars for a beautiful set of shackles and leg irons! I decided that my absolute limit would be $40. My bid of $45 almost held. But up it went. I walked away with them for $60. Now, that's $60 that I can't afford right now, but it seemed clear to me that A.) I was never again in my life going to have the opportunity to obtain a set of irons for $60, and B.) my father and I have plenty of leftover turkey so I won't be spending that much on groceries this week. So there!
And here's an interesting phenomenon: not sure what my horoscope read this week, but it seems to be the Time Of Men With Large Penises Taking A Strong Interest In Me. Last night, I got the jump on Santa Saturday (most out-of-towners arrive on Friday) and headed down to the Raven. And ended up having a great night in room 159 of the Best Western with a guy from Connecticutt who had one of the largest I've ever... uh... accommodated.
And then today, tit was brought to my attention (ahem) that two of the men who were "keeping me warm" at the event had just either unbelieveably substantial pieces on them, or they were doing the Spinal Tap thing with zucchini. And, one of the zucchini guys is local! So even if I don't run into him tonight during Round Two, I'll meet up with him again at some point. Hopefully.
I've never been much in the way of a size queen. All I have to offer is a standard issue six (same as John Dillinger, from what I've read). And since that hole of mine is tight as a snare drum, I've never paid much attention. To me, they're all big. But after last night's Olympic challenge, I'm sort of feeling as though I want to see just how far I can take this. Or, how deep I can take this might be a better way of putting it. No big deal. Not a convert to that particular cult. It's just a phase.
But here's the really great thing. The sex last night was just soooo pleasant. Not frought. Not anxiety producing. Just enjoyable. Just a sweet and sweaty time with another man. And it's been a really long time since I had that. Since I was able to just turn off all those clamoring voices of self-doubt and baseless fears in my head and enjoy it.
I think I probably have Horowitz to thank for some of that, after the scene he orchestrated for me at Inferno. Just let it all go and enjoy. I'll try to remember that.
And.. and... I totally fell in love with the guy. Not in a creepy Let's Be A Stalker way. Just letting my imagination envision a new future for myself. Cuz he is a great guy. In addition to being good in bed and verrrrry hot--and the zucchini situation--he was an absolute sweetheart. Lots of laughter punctuated our time together.
I decided thatif I spent one more minute in those damn drafty, cold tents that it was time to go, so I headed to my jeep. I stopped on the way home at the Giant supermarket in New Hope to pick up leeks, carrots, and pot pie noodles to make turkey-leek stew for my father for dinner tonight. Only one person in the supermarket gave me a look to indicate that there was anything irregular about somebody shopping for produce dressed like a stormtrooper if stormtroopers wore neoprene.
Anyway. Gotta get that soup on. My turkey stock is absolutely sensational! Yesterday morning, the Baron and I chatted while I reduced it and clarified it with the Ol' Egg White Trick. It's so thick you could probably walk on it, and this wonderful rich brown color. Wish me luck tonight, both with dinner and with finding a hot man on a cold November night.
This just in from the annual event hosted by the Bucks MC down in New Hope... me!
Okay. It was chilly. In years past, at the Cartwheel, it was pretty much contained by tents or downright indoors, so the only time the cold weather was a problem was waiting for the long, long, long line to get in to move you to the door. This year, at the Raven, it was more of an indoor/outdoor event.
My wardrobe inspiration was to wear the wetsuit singlet my Sir gave me. I had it on, and it looked great, but at the last minute I reconsidered. Instead, I opted for my neoprene uniform shirt and pants from Nasty Pig. Alas, neoprene does nothing in the way of heat retention, but I was slightly warmer than I would have been running around in a singlet. And I was cold most of the time. Even colder than I was at Dore Alley in SF. And that's cold!
But I kept a stiff upper lip, and solicited offers to 'keep me warm' from several of the hot men in attendance. Another thing to love about bears: they keep you warm!
And everybody was there. Great to see all those guys so much. At the risk of... ...whatever, I'm gonna go on record as saying that my exile here in the howling wilderness makes me realize that I love these men, my fellow travelers on this leather odyssey. Truly I do. I'm nourished and sustained by seeing them a few times a year, odd as that may be. Being greeted by a hot man decked out in leather by name, wearing a big welcoming smile on his face... it's the tonic I need to live.
But there was one tragic thing: no meatball sandwiches! Those amazing, amazing meatball sandwiches were not to be found this year. Just hotdogs and sausage sandwiches. I made do with hotdogs (of course the Bucks MC had saur kraut!), and when I asked, I was told that the meatball sandwiches were a bit too messy last year. I hearby offer to help with clean-up if it would mean their reappearance next year. But, hotdogs were only $2, so I had like five of them. With saur kraut and mustard, just the way I like'em.
All the action, though not much in the way of warmth, was in one big tent this year. By 'action,' I'm referring to the auction and drag show. I tend to tune this out. Having been reared in the midst of the East Village drag scene of the late '80s and early '90s, the whole glamorous show tunes thing doesn't move me much. Not demented and twisted enough for my tastes. And the auction items mostly seem to consist of granny afgans. There must be a crocheting fool in the ranks of the Bucks MC, who at this moment is working away at his granny afgan offerings for next year.
But at one point, I heard the MC announce that the next item up for auction was a set of irons, wrist and ankle, and the accompanying allen wrench. I think the last words I heard before I lost consciousness were, "and it looks like pretty good welding on these."
My sincere apologies to all the guys who were unfortunately In My Way as I made my way to the auction area. I hope your injuries weren't too severe, and that you received medical attention without too much of a delay.
The bidding started at $10. Ten dollars for a beautiful set of shackles and leg irons! I decided that my absolute limit would be $40. My bid of $45 almost held. But up it went. I walked away with them for $60. Now, that's $60 that I can't afford right now, but it seemed clear to me that A.) I was never again in my life going to have the opportunity to obtain a set of irons for $60, and B.) my father and I have plenty of leftover turkey so I won't be spending that much on groceries this week. So there!
And here's an interesting phenomenon: not sure what my horoscope read this week, but it seems to be the Time Of Men With Large Penises Taking A Strong Interest In Me. Last night, I got the jump on Santa Saturday (most out-of-towners arrive on Friday) and headed down to the Raven. And ended up having a great night in room 159 of the Best Western with a guy from Connecticutt who had one of the largest I've ever... uh... accommodated.
And then today, tit was brought to my attention (ahem) that two of the men who were "keeping me warm" at the event had just either unbelieveably substantial pieces on them, or they were doing the Spinal Tap thing with zucchini. And, one of the zucchini guys is local! So even if I don't run into him tonight during Round Two, I'll meet up with him again at some point. Hopefully.
I've never been much in the way of a size queen. All I have to offer is a standard issue six (same as John Dillinger, from what I've read). And since that hole of mine is tight as a snare drum, I've never paid much attention. To me, they're all big. But after last night's Olympic challenge, I'm sort of feeling as though I want to see just how far I can take this. Or, how deep I can take this might be a better way of putting it. No big deal. Not a convert to that particular cult. It's just a phase.
But here's the really great thing. The sex last night was just soooo pleasant. Not frought. Not anxiety producing. Just enjoyable. Just a sweet and sweaty time with another man. And it's been a really long time since I had that. Since I was able to just turn off all those clamoring voices of self-doubt and baseless fears in my head and enjoy it.
I think I probably have Horowitz to thank for some of that, after the scene he orchestrated for me at Inferno. Just let it all go and enjoy. I'll try to remember that.
And.. and... I totally fell in love with the guy. Not in a creepy Let's Be A Stalker way. Just letting my imagination envision a new future for myself. Cuz he is a great guy. In addition to being good in bed and verrrrry hot--and the zucchini situation--he was an absolute sweetheart. Lots of laughter punctuated our time together.
I decided that
Anyway. Gotta get that soup on. My turkey stock is absolutely sensational! Yesterday morning, the Baron and I chatted while I reduced it and clarified it with the Ol' Egg White Trick. It's so thick you could probably walk on it, and this wonderful rich brown color. Wish me luck tonight, both with dinner and with finding a hot man on a cold November night.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Thankful
Thanksgiving went well. The Baron came up from Philadelphia. I made turkey, stuffing with pecans and cranberries, baked pineapple, sweet potatoes, some of the corn I put up back over the summer, and sauteed red cabbage. Everybody liked it.
This weekend is Santa Saturday, and you bettah believe I'm looking forward to that. Things like this are a lifeline for me. I should be good for another few months after this. Enough to hold me until MAL.
Tonight, the Baron wanted to see the inside of the Raven down in New Hope. and, of course, what the Baron wants... There was nothing going on there. Not even some early Santa Saturday arrivals. It was grim. We were out of there in about twenty minutes.
But then, on the way home, I had a thought.
The Baron was reminiscing about how it was when we were young. Heading to Kurts and dancing the night away, wearing our broaches and new wave haircuts. Flirting. Dancing. Dancing and flirting.
And I had this recollection. One night, years ago, early on in my time in NYC. I was at a bar--a great bar--called the Altar. And I remember seeing these two guys. Bearish guys. I watched as they met each other, talked, their eyes started shining, they were touching, then kissing each other deeply.
Right there, in front of me, while I watched, they fell in love. I remember at one point, they stood, arms around each other, looking out at the bar, at all of us, seemingly aware of their incredible good fortune. That they had been touched by something rare and beautiful.
So the thought that I had: young people know nothing about love. A kind of youth is wasted on the young thing. It takes a man who has road out many of life's storms, has learned how much pain can come with love, has been to hell. Only men of a certain age can really fall in love.
And I've got some years on me now.
Whaddya know about that?
Thanksgiving went well. The Baron came up from Philadelphia. I made turkey, stuffing with pecans and cranberries, baked pineapple, sweet potatoes, some of the corn I put up back over the summer, and sauteed red cabbage. Everybody liked it.
This weekend is Santa Saturday, and you bettah believe I'm looking forward to that. Things like this are a lifeline for me. I should be good for another few months after this. Enough to hold me until MAL.
Tonight, the Baron wanted to see the inside of the Raven down in New Hope. and, of course, what the Baron wants... There was nothing going on there. Not even some early Santa Saturday arrivals. It was grim. We were out of there in about twenty minutes.
But then, on the way home, I had a thought.
The Baron was reminiscing about how it was when we were young. Heading to Kurts and dancing the night away, wearing our broaches and new wave haircuts. Flirting. Dancing. Dancing and flirting.
And I had this recollection. One night, years ago, early on in my time in NYC. I was at a bar--a great bar--called the Altar. And I remember seeing these two guys. Bearish guys. I watched as they met each other, talked, their eyes started shining, they were touching, then kissing each other deeply.
Right there, in front of me, while I watched, they fell in love. I remember at one point, they stood, arms around each other, looking out at the bar, at all of us, seemingly aware of their incredible good fortune. That they had been touched by something rare and beautiful.
So the thought that I had: young people know nothing about love. A kind of youth is wasted on the young thing. It takes a man who has road out many of life's storms, has learned how much pain can come with love, has been to hell. Only men of a certain age can really fall in love.
And I've got some years on me now.
Whaddya know about that?
Monday, November 21, 2005
Uh Oh
Morale at the woodshop where I work is really bad. And with good cause. With all of the reconstruction going on in the Gulf States (Trent Lott's house!), the price of materials has gone up. A lot. And it seems McMansion dwellers don't have the discretionary income they had previously, because orders are not coming in. And, the zany antics of the Vice President have alienated several of the dealers who are sending their orders elsewhere. So there have been layoffs. A couple of guys have quit. Many have confided in me that they're looking. Hard. A guy who has been with the shop for about ten years (who has a new part time job) today offered the opinion that dear old Wuperior Soodcraft probably won't be around by the time next Christmas rolls around.
So that's crappy.
So once again, I'm hoping for a new job. And I think I might have to seriously consider a desk to shackle myself too.
If you hear of anything, lemme know.
Morale at the woodshop where I work is really bad. And with good cause. With all of the reconstruction going on in the Gulf States (Trent Lott's house!), the price of materials has gone up. A lot. And it seems McMansion dwellers don't have the discretionary income they had previously, because orders are not coming in. And, the zany antics of the Vice President have alienated several of the dealers who are sending their orders elsewhere. So there have been layoffs. A couple of guys have quit. Many have confided in me that they're looking. Hard. A guy who has been with the shop for about ten years (who has a new part time job) today offered the opinion that dear old Wuperior Soodcraft probably won't be around by the time next Christmas rolls around.
So that's crappy.
So once again, I'm hoping for a new job. And I think I might have to seriously consider a desk to shackle myself too.
If you hear of anything, lemme know.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Thirty-Five More Shopping Days
...and a leather-look spandex body suit is exactly what I want for Christmas! Wow! How cool is this? And at $169 a pop, that's certainly reasonable. I wonder if Super Powers come with it? Oh. Wait. I got those.
...and a leather-look spandex body suit is exactly what I want for Christmas! Wow! How cool is this? And at $169 a pop, that's certainly reasonable. I wonder if Super Powers come with it? Oh. Wait. I got those.
Out
So at the Bike Stop last night... Struck out? I didn't even get up to bat. There's this weird couple phenomenon that I'm up against. Every guy I make moves on proceeded to introduce me to his boyfriend. And I got that snotty 'And We're Monogamous' vibe.
But I've got my head together. I drove home without mishap, went to bed, and woke up early, feeling refreshed and happy. it didn't matter.
And another interesting thing I noticed. That flakey cigar smoking cub who stood me up yesterday? He's got me all Toppy Top. I just wanna plow some sweet faced boy right into next week. Give him stars in his eyes and make him forget his name.
So that's kind of interesting. Here's what I'm thinking...
That flakey cigar smoking cub? I got all crushed out on him. He rewired my circuits. He captured my imagination. He had me seeing new possibilities for myself. Had me thinking of new places I might go.
And that just hasn't happened for a while. I was wondering if I had worn out those faculties.
Huh.
And in a way, the fact that we never... uh... consumated our internet courtship, well, that's cool. For now, that's enough. I can drink in the experience, enjoy it, and be satisfied.
An'anotherthing. Last night at the Bike Stop, I ran into the Other Gay Guy at work. Finally it happened [g]. He's a designer, he doesn't work on the shop floor. It was kinda weird. When he came up to me, my brain registered as someone I knew and knew well--I see the guy every day just about--but, because of the context, I didn't place him. After all, we were at the Bike Stop, not Wuperior Soodcraft. So I sorta went into overcompensation mode, and gave him a big fat kiss hello. It surprised both of us. And then, of course, he introduced me to his significant other.
Because everybody's got one of those.
Except me.
But like I said. It's cool.
I can still get a crush.
So at the Bike Stop last night... Struck out? I didn't even get up to bat. There's this weird couple phenomenon that I'm up against. Every guy I make moves on proceeded to introduce me to his boyfriend. And I got that snotty 'And We're Monogamous' vibe.
But I've got my head together. I drove home without mishap, went to bed, and woke up early, feeling refreshed and happy. it didn't matter.
And another interesting thing I noticed. That flakey cigar smoking cub who stood me up yesterday? He's got me all Toppy Top. I just wanna plow some sweet faced boy right into next week. Give him stars in his eyes and make him forget his name.
So that's kind of interesting. Here's what I'm thinking...
That flakey cigar smoking cub? I got all crushed out on him. He rewired my circuits. He captured my imagination. He had me seeing new possibilities for myself. Had me thinking of new places I might go.
And that just hasn't happened for a while. I was wondering if I had worn out those faculties.
Huh.
And in a way, the fact that we never... uh... consumated our internet courtship, well, that's cool. For now, that's enough. I can drink in the experience, enjoy it, and be satisfied.
An'anotherthing. Last night at the Bike Stop, I ran into the Other Gay Guy at work. Finally it happened [g]. He's a designer, he doesn't work on the shop floor. It was kinda weird. When he came up to me, my brain registered as someone I knew and knew well--I see the guy every day just about--but, because of the context, I didn't place him. After all, we were at the Bike Stop, not Wuperior Soodcraft. So I sorta went into overcompensation mode, and gave him a big fat kiss hello. It surprised both of us. And then, of course, he introduced me to his significant other.
Because everybody's got one of those.
Except me.
But like I said. It's cool.
I can still get a crush.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Y'All Are All Gettin This For Christmas!
Cool! It looks like one of my favorite things on the World Wide Internet, Obscene Interiors, in which someone critiques the design decisions made by guys who post nude pictures of themselves in their internet personal ads has been made into a book! I'll be lookin' for it!
Cool! It looks like one of my favorite things on the World Wide Internet, Obscene Interiors, in which someone critiques the design decisions made by guys who post nude pictures of themselves in their internet personal ads has been made into a book! I'll be lookin' for it!
Aaaarrrrrrrggggghhh!!!!
Lucy. Charlie Brown. The football.
Here I go again! This time... this time...
So after last week's fateful visit to the Bike Stop. I was reeling.
And then, I fell into conversation with a really hot, built, cigar-smoking cub from Queens. Lots of mutual interest. I kept deferring. "Well, there's my dog..." Bring him along. "Let's meet up at Santa Saturday and see how it goes." Come spend Saturday night.
And I let myself get all excited.
I mean, in terms of men I tend to be attracted to, he's very close to 100%. And he's my age. Not a clueless young'un. Seems that leather is a big part of his life, too. Not something he tucks away at the back of a drawer (hate that!).
So at work this week, I was whistling and humming and singing to myself. More and more looking forward to Saturday, when, as planned, i would drive up to NYC, head to his house, chain him up, and torture him for a bit.
Maybe... maybe... maybe this could be more than a very satisfying scene...
On Friday, I realized I didn't have his address. (Duh!) I sent him a message to get it. Told him I was really looking forward to tomorrow night. No response.
Uh oh.
But still...
Then, this morning, the axe fell. I got a brief message from him: "I'm pretty tired today."
I messaged back: "Gotcha. Guess that means we're off for tonight. Lemme know when would be good."
What the hell?
Let's review. First off, that's just rude. When you commit yourself to something, unless you're hospitalized or, as Miss Manners points out, compelled to attend a State Dinner at the White House (it's considered to be both a social engagement, and service to your country, so it's okay to bow out of an previous engagment), you've gotta go through with it. So he's an asshole. A total unreliable flakey spacey worthless piece of shit. Shades of basanos... I never got over that fiasco. And, apparently, haven't learned much from it either. boys lie. It's what they do. It's characterological.
But what happened? I mean, was it enough for him to get from me some of my ideas of what I had planned for him so he could beat off? (And the fact that we agreed on a time and place to carry those out was a detail that sailed right by him.) Or did I do something or say something...? Not that there's anything I could do or say that would warrant that treatment, but still...
But still. I can't help feeling that I'm doing something wrong. And I can't fuckin figure out what.
It would be so nice if I could look forward to meeting up with a guy on the weekends, a guy to go have adventures with, smoke cigars with, cuddle up in bed with at night, cook great dinners for.
And okay, I admit I'm picky. But get this: I invite men who would date me to be picky, too. Get it? I work really hard to keep myself together, to stand out, to excel, to be desireable. So it's not asking to much for someone else to pay attention to those things, too. If'n he wants to date me.
Okay okay okay. Lawyers don't get dates ever. And that's maybe a little unfair. But they're just so insufferable. Incapable of having a conversation. Someday, it will be revealed that in the basement of every law school in the country, there's a special brain surgery room, where certain key parts of the cerebral cortex are removed from every second year law student.
So I cleaned up my room this morning. Spent the afternoon chopping firewood. And tonight I'm heading down to the Bike Stop.
Headspace. It's all about headspace, right?
That big, bearded guy in the big, black Mazda pickup got me all bent out of shape last week. There are no signs! The Universe does not, in fact, care whether or not I get laid, and does not broadcast the news by putting big, bearded, cigar smoking men in big, black Mazda pickup trucks in my path to alert me to upcoming events.
It's just a night at the Bike Stop. I'll put on my leather, drive down there, stop at Starbucks, maybe grab something to eat before I head over, maybe stop at Borders Books and Music. Maybe there will be some of the guys that I know there. Maybe not. Maybe I'll meet some new man to talk to, maybe not. Maybe I'll give a lecture on Harm Reduction to those guys from the Crystal Meth Task Force who pass out condoms (can you say, "Beside The Point"?), maybe not.
Maybe I'll meet a really great guy. A big hairy cigar smoking guy. We'll talk. We'll hit it off. As he talks, I just get more and more turned on. So does he. Turns out he's a great kisser. Pretty soon, we're pushing the limits of what's okay behavior in a public place in Philadelphia. We'll go to his place. It'll be great. Tomorrow morning, I'll get up, call my dad, and before I rush home to walk my dog, he'll say, "Wait, when can we see each other again? Can we do something like have dinner together? Get to know each other some? I really like you, Drew. You're a great guy."
And maybe not.
You promise this time, right, Lucy?
Look Charlie Brown, here's a signed statement that clearly says I will not pull the football away.
Okay.
This time... this time....
Here I go!
Lucy. Charlie Brown. The football.
Here I go again! This time... this time...
So after last week's fateful visit to the Bike Stop. I was reeling.
And then, I fell into conversation with a really hot, built, cigar-smoking cub from Queens. Lots of mutual interest. I kept deferring. "Well, there's my dog..." Bring him along. "Let's meet up at Santa Saturday and see how it goes." Come spend Saturday night.
And I let myself get all excited.
I mean, in terms of men I tend to be attracted to, he's very close to 100%. And he's my age. Not a clueless young'un. Seems that leather is a big part of his life, too. Not something he tucks away at the back of a drawer (hate that!).
So at work this week, I was whistling and humming and singing to myself. More and more looking forward to Saturday, when, as planned, i would drive up to NYC, head to his house, chain him up, and torture him for a bit.
Maybe... maybe... maybe this could be more than a very satisfying scene...
On Friday, I realized I didn't have his address. (Duh!) I sent him a message to get it. Told him I was really looking forward to tomorrow night. No response.
Uh oh.
But still...
Then, this morning, the axe fell. I got a brief message from him: "I'm pretty tired today."
I messaged back: "Gotcha. Guess that means we're off for tonight. Lemme know when would be good."
What the hell?
Let's review. First off, that's just rude. When you commit yourself to something, unless you're hospitalized or, as Miss Manners points out, compelled to attend a State Dinner at the White House (it's considered to be both a social engagement, and service to your country, so it's okay to bow out of an previous engagment), you've gotta go through with it. So he's an asshole. A total unreliable flakey spacey worthless piece of shit. Shades of basanos... I never got over that fiasco. And, apparently, haven't learned much from it either. boys lie. It's what they do. It's characterological.
But what happened? I mean, was it enough for him to get from me some of my ideas of what I had planned for him so he could beat off? (And the fact that we agreed on a time and place to carry those out was a detail that sailed right by him.) Or did I do something or say something...? Not that there's anything I could do or say that would warrant that treatment, but still...
But still. I can't help feeling that I'm doing something wrong. And I can't fuckin figure out what.
It would be so nice if I could look forward to meeting up with a guy on the weekends, a guy to go have adventures with, smoke cigars with, cuddle up in bed with at night, cook great dinners for.
And okay, I admit I'm picky. But get this: I invite men who would date me to be picky, too. Get it? I work really hard to keep myself together, to stand out, to excel, to be desireable. So it's not asking to much for someone else to pay attention to those things, too. If'n he wants to date me.
Okay okay okay. Lawyers don't get dates ever. And that's maybe a little unfair. But they're just so insufferable. Incapable of having a conversation. Someday, it will be revealed that in the basement of every law school in the country, there's a special brain surgery room, where certain key parts of the cerebral cortex are removed from every second year law student.
So I cleaned up my room this morning. Spent the afternoon chopping firewood. And tonight I'm heading down to the Bike Stop.
Headspace. It's all about headspace, right?
That big, bearded guy in the big, black Mazda pickup got me all bent out of shape last week. There are no signs! The Universe does not, in fact, care whether or not I get laid, and does not broadcast the news by putting big, bearded, cigar smoking men in big, black Mazda pickup trucks in my path to alert me to upcoming events.
It's just a night at the Bike Stop. I'll put on my leather, drive down there, stop at Starbucks, maybe grab something to eat before I head over, maybe stop at Borders Books and Music. Maybe there will be some of the guys that I know there. Maybe not. Maybe I'll meet some new man to talk to, maybe not. Maybe I'll give a lecture on Harm Reduction to those guys from the Crystal Meth Task Force who pass out condoms (can you say, "Beside The Point"?), maybe not.
Maybe I'll meet a really great guy. A big hairy cigar smoking guy. We'll talk. We'll hit it off. As he talks, I just get more and more turned on. So does he. Turns out he's a great kisser. Pretty soon, we're pushing the limits of what's okay behavior in a public place in Philadelphia. We'll go to his place. It'll be great. Tomorrow morning, I'll get up, call my dad, and before I rush home to walk my dog, he'll say, "Wait, when can we see each other again? Can we do something like have dinner together? Get to know each other some? I really like you, Drew. You're a great guy."
And maybe not.
You promise this time, right, Lucy?
Look Charlie Brown, here's a signed statement that clearly says I will not pull the football away.
Okay.
This time... this time....
Here I go!
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Curses! My Nefarious Plans Are Foiled!
The Bike Stop. I decided to go to the Bike Stop last night. My father's parting words to me were, "Do you have to?"
On the way down, I stopped at a 7-11 to pick up some Rosie's. (For the uninitiated, "Rosie's" refers to iced tea made by Rosenberger's Dairies, a local operation. Not too sweet, but with a nice bite, blue collar work in these parts is fueled by Rosie's.) I got two half gallons, got back in my jeep, and then noticed that the vehicle next to me was parked awfully close. The driver was going to have a hard time getting out. And then I saw who was driving.
This... this... man. Big man. Bush beard. Like, reeeally bushy. And big, beautiful brown eyes. And then I realized he wasn't getting out. He had pulled off the road and into the 7-11 parking lot so he could light a big cigar.
I mean, Wow! Thanks God!
I sat there, transfixed, for as long as I could before it got awkward. But I was so rattled by the experience that I drove a good mile and a half with my lights off.
Surely, I thought, this is a Sign. Surely it's going to be a good night for me at the Bike Stop.
I got into Phila. without too much trouble. Parked in my regular lot on Walnut Street. At this point I was starving, so I headed to More Than Just Ice Cream for a chicken quesadilla. Over dinner, I thought some about the big man in the big Mazda with the big cigar. Now, obviously he was straight. But I mean, he's the total embodiment of the archetype that I and so many gay men I know seek and seek to emulate. Is he aware of that? Could he have any inkling that there are legions of men out there who would pay a lot of money to watch him sit naked except for his boots and smoke a cigar. If he ever decided to sell his underwear on eBay, he could retire early.
Further, how did he come to look that way? I mean, it didn't just happen. He's homo sapiens. Res cogitans. He has self-consciousness like the rest of us. Who was he modeling? Does he see himself as a biker guy, and so that's what a biker guy looks like? I mean, gay men do it because they're following the principle of Look Like Whom Thou Wouldst Fuck. But what's his motivation? Is he doing it to get laid, too?
So then I headed to the Bike Stop. And whaddya know, there were lots and lots of very hot men there. Perhaps Mazda Guy was a good omen.
Ran into several guys I know, including a Los Angelino who works in Phila. from time to time. There were so many hot men there last night, I had a hard time figuring out which ones to go for. But not too hard a time.
And I struck out five times.
Five!
In most cases, the men I was after all seemed to be there with their boyfriends or husbands. (There ought to be a law against that. Or if you're off the market, you should have to wear a purdah when you go into a leatherbar.) But in some cases it was just, "Great meeting you. See you again sometime. 'Bye." And this one guy gave me a great bear hug, lifiting me up off the ground.
Okay. Desparation was setting in. I wanted a connection dammit! Not going home together (chances are that would be way unworkable). But just swapping phone numbers. Or even spit. Something!
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I headed to my car. At this point, I was boiling. I decided to indulge myself, and as I drove up North Broad Street, I was screaming "Fuck you guy wearing the leather harness! Fuck you red headed bear in the baseball cap! Fuck you skinhead boy! Fuck you Philadelphia!"
With all that adrenaline pumping, I was wide awake for the ride home.
And then, I saw flashing reds and blues in my rear view. I got a ticket for running a redlight. It was yellow when I went into the intersection, I swear! The cop--who wasn't hot, dammit--was nice enough about it. And told me that if I went to a hearing (another hearing), then we could work something out so I wouldn't get points on my license. (It was yellow!)
Dammit dammit dammit.
And then, within ten miles of home, I started hearing this noise coming from the engine.
Unbelievable! Car trouble? I just got new fluids belts and filters three months ago!
Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Except when I accelerated. Then it was KerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNK.
I took it slow and managed to get home. I discovered that my engine belt had partially worn away. There was still about 3/8th of an inch of it left. But apparently the part that had split off had been whipping around under the hood. And had severed an air hose going to my carburator.
Why, that would be more money I don't have!
Oh man.
Not to mention, I'll be driving the White Ford Taurus till it gets repaired. (I swear, if I have to drive a white Ford Taurus to Santa Saturday, I'll kill myself. I just will. I'm serious. I'm making a plan and all! It'll be dramatic. Caffeine overdose, right in the middle of Starbucks.)
So what's up with that?
They say "bad luck comes in threes," but usually those situations involve a chain of events. This trio... there was no relationship. They were all completely independent of each other.
I've been getting on so good with the Universe lately. Why now do get kicked when I'm down?
Anyway, I'm keeping at bay abject self-pity and self-criticism the likes of which hasn't been seen since Mao's Cultural Revolution. But it ain't easy.
Anyway, time to head to Starbucks. Starbucks never lets me down.
The Bike Stop. I decided to go to the Bike Stop last night. My father's parting words to me were, "Do you have to?"
On the way down, I stopped at a 7-11 to pick up some Rosie's. (For the uninitiated, "Rosie's" refers to iced tea made by Rosenberger's Dairies, a local operation. Not too sweet, but with a nice bite, blue collar work in these parts is fueled by Rosie's.) I got two half gallons, got back in my jeep, and then noticed that the vehicle next to me was parked awfully close. The driver was going to have a hard time getting out. And then I saw who was driving.
This... this... man. Big man. Bush beard. Like, reeeally bushy. And big, beautiful brown eyes. And then I realized he wasn't getting out. He had pulled off the road and into the 7-11 parking lot so he could light a big cigar.
I mean, Wow! Thanks God!
I sat there, transfixed, for as long as I could before it got awkward. But I was so rattled by the experience that I drove a good mile and a half with my lights off.
Surely, I thought, this is a Sign. Surely it's going to be a good night for me at the Bike Stop.
I got into Phila. without too much trouble. Parked in my regular lot on Walnut Street. At this point I was starving, so I headed to More Than Just Ice Cream for a chicken quesadilla. Over dinner, I thought some about the big man in the big Mazda with the big cigar. Now, obviously he was straight. But I mean, he's the total embodiment of the archetype that I and so many gay men I know seek and seek to emulate. Is he aware of that? Could he have any inkling that there are legions of men out there who would pay a lot of money to watch him sit naked except for his boots and smoke a cigar. If he ever decided to sell his underwear on eBay, he could retire early.
Further, how did he come to look that way? I mean, it didn't just happen. He's homo sapiens. Res cogitans. He has self-consciousness like the rest of us. Who was he modeling? Does he see himself as a biker guy, and so that's what a biker guy looks like? I mean, gay men do it because they're following the principle of Look Like Whom Thou Wouldst Fuck. But what's his motivation? Is he doing it to get laid, too?
So then I headed to the Bike Stop. And whaddya know, there were lots and lots of very hot men there. Perhaps Mazda Guy was a good omen.
Ran into several guys I know, including a Los Angelino who works in Phila. from time to time. There were so many hot men there last night, I had a hard time figuring out which ones to go for. But not too hard a time.
And I struck out five times.
Five!
In most cases, the men I was after all seemed to be there with their boyfriends or husbands. (There ought to be a law against that. Or if you're off the market, you should have to wear a purdah when you go into a leatherbar.) But in some cases it was just, "Great meeting you. See you again sometime. 'Bye." And this one guy gave me a great bear hug, lifiting me up off the ground.
Okay. Desparation was setting in. I wanted a connection dammit! Not going home together (chances are that would be way unworkable). But just swapping phone numbers. Or even spit. Something!
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I headed to my car. At this point, I was boiling. I decided to indulge myself, and as I drove up North Broad Street, I was screaming "Fuck you guy wearing the leather harness! Fuck you red headed bear in the baseball cap! Fuck you skinhead boy! Fuck you Philadelphia!"
With all that adrenaline pumping, I was wide awake for the ride home.
And then, I saw flashing reds and blues in my rear view. I got a ticket for running a redlight. It was yellow when I went into the intersection, I swear! The cop--who wasn't hot, dammit--was nice enough about it. And told me that if I went to a hearing (another hearing), then we could work something out so I wouldn't get points on my license. (It was yellow!)
Dammit dammit dammit.
And then, within ten miles of home, I started hearing this noise coming from the engine.
Unbelievable! Car trouble? I just got new fluids belts and filters three months ago!
Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Ker-DUNK. Except when I accelerated. Then it was KerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNKkerDUNK.
I took it slow and managed to get home. I discovered that my engine belt had partially worn away. There was still about 3/8th of an inch of it left. But apparently the part that had split off had been whipping around under the hood. And had severed an air hose going to my carburator.
Why, that would be more money I don't have!
Oh man.
Not to mention, I'll be driving the White Ford Taurus till it gets repaired. (I swear, if I have to drive a white Ford Taurus to Santa Saturday, I'll kill myself. I just will. I'm serious. I'm making a plan and all! It'll be dramatic. Caffeine overdose, right in the middle of Starbucks.)
So what's up with that?
They say "bad luck comes in threes," but usually those situations involve a chain of events. This trio... there was no relationship. They were all completely independent of each other.
I've been getting on so good with the Universe lately. Why now do get kicked when I'm down?
Anyway, I'm keeping at bay abject self-pity and self-criticism the likes of which hasn't been seen since Mao's Cultural Revolution. But it ain't easy.
Anyway, time to head to Starbucks. Starbucks never lets me down.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
You Go Back, Jack, Do It Again
Yesterday, I thought, was GMSMA's Leatherfest, featuring the erotic art show at the Center in NYC.
Uh... No. It's next weekend.
But that's just as well, because I didn't manage to get my act together to head up to NYC to take part in the Leatherfestivities until 3:00 pm yesterday, getting me into the city at quarter of five. The hour that, one week later, will bring Leatherfest to a close.
So why did I bother?
Because I get to NYC often enough, especially during softball. But I'm always heading up for something. So I'm in a hurry, and all stressed out because I'm inevitably delayed by traffic at the Holland Tunnel, and then I go and do whatever, and afterwards, I've got just enough time to grab a latte before it's time to head home.
But what I don't get is unencumbered time. Just time to wander around without a thought in my head. Sit in some coffee place somewhere, reading, writing in my journal.
Having posted recently about the "numinous cloud of romantic possibility" that I've come to miss about NYC, I decided I need some of that. So that's what I did.
I found parking on Hudson Street, and headed for the Factory Cafe. I got a latte, found a seat in the window, and read my Buddhism book, watching the parade of men and (increasingly since I left) straight couples with baby carriages or yung'uns in tow. Sweet.
My softball coach spotted me and stopped in to chat on his way to work at Ty's. Great catching up with him. Big changes are in the offing apparently. One of our number, has been proposed to. His partner had hip replacement surgery. And he and his partner were interviewed for a segment on In The Life on same sex couples who have been together like forever. (Or as he put it, "far far far far too long." With a smile, he said that.)
Afterwards, I stopped in to visit him at Ty's, and found the early evening crowd to be enticingly toothsome. I started to feel hungry, so I headed to Go Sushi on Village Square (that's 6th Ave and Chrisopher for you outtatowners), and then decided to head to the Spiegel.
In part, I wanted to confirm a theory that the Baron and I cooked up last weekend.
Okay. Here's my theory. Those Chelsea guys! They have all these fabulous gay bars in Chelsea with amazing interiors and great drinks, and they wear their hottest clothes and head there and meet up with their friends, and talk all kinds of smack, and catch up on the latest, and laugh and comiserate, and such. But here's what they can't do at G and XL or wherever: they can't make a play for that hottie across the room. Because when you swim in the creme de la creme of NYC gay life, you never know who he might be, and you don't want to do something like make a pass and get shot down by someone who might be the client who walks into your ad agency on monday morning. So what these guys can't do is get laid. But lo and behold, this bar with all these dark corners opened up, and it's not the kind of place that Chelsea guys would go to, so of course, they all flock there. Because that's where the rules are lifted, and they might just be able to get laid.
And indeed, the Spiegel was mobbed with Chelsea guys, wearing Hollister instead of Abercrombie & Fitch right now.
But there was some leather in the place. More, in fact, than I'm used to seeing there. And, it was an unseasonably balmy night. So I headed to the roofdeck to have a cigar. I met a few guys, including one who works for none other than Roman Cool. I shared with him my nickname for his boss, and it's origins, and he concurred that it was apt.
And I ran into the delicious Booie! With whom I did the scene that almost got shut down last year at Delta. He was resplendent in rubber.
Okay. Then I noticed that on the second floor, around the pool table, it was incredibly dimly lit. I mean, if someone standing a yard away from you did the "how many fingers am I holding up" thing, you'd have a hard time with that.
Uh huh.
But, oddly, no one seemed to be taking advantage of that.
I worked my way through the crowd. The crowd of guys just standing there in the darkness. And saw this totally hot muscle guy. Inexplicably, he was wearing a wifebeater over a harness. No idea what he was thinking there, but he was so hot that he could have been wearing a Hello Kitty! tshirt and pulled it off. I positioned myself directly across from him, and for a good ten minutes, we just stood there, looking at each other.
SooOOooOOOOoooo hot.
Finally, when I crossed the four feet of space that separated us, it was instant lip lock. And touching and holding and pinching nipples and exploring down the seats of pants. He was a great kisser. He had a great touch. And his body just felt so good. So good.
I love that. In fact, just kissing and touching and holding some stranger in a dark bar is one of my favorite things about being gay.
Eventually, he called it quits. Not sure if I was being fired or whether he was just moving on or whatever, but it was cool. He said something about having to take a piss and recharge. Cool.
But, we apparently were the catalyst for all kinds of gettin' busy. Instead of standing there in the darkness, there was now this writhing, sucking, kissing throng around me. I really got off on the hot muscle daddy to my right, who was working the balls of a hot Dominican boy. The boy would say, "No, that's too much!" and the daddy would ease up some, talk him through it, and continue putting him through his paces. Great interaction! At one point, the boy was going down on him, sucking cock like a pro, and I caught the daddy's eye. He smile, and I gave him a hammy, exagerated thumbs up.
And, eventually, someone in the employ of the Spiegel figured out what was going on, and pushed his way through the throng, shining his flashlight into the darkest corners. Alas. We all kind of hung out after that, but the action never really got going again.
I definitley didn't intend to, but I ended up closing the place down, leaving at 4 am. This meant that I got home at 5:30. This meant that I was going to bed at the time when I would have to get up for work in 24 hours. And I am not a young and vigourous pup anymore!
So, as you can well imagine, today was a slow day.
Yesterday, I thought, was GMSMA's Leatherfest, featuring the erotic art show at the Center in NYC.
Uh... No. It's next weekend.
But that's just as well, because I didn't manage to get my act together to head up to NYC to take part in the Leatherfestivities until 3:00 pm yesterday, getting me into the city at quarter of five. The hour that, one week later, will bring Leatherfest to a close.
So why did I bother?
Because I get to NYC often enough, especially during softball. But I'm always heading up for something. So I'm in a hurry, and all stressed out because I'm inevitably delayed by traffic at the Holland Tunnel, and then I go and do whatever, and afterwards, I've got just enough time to grab a latte before it's time to head home.
But what I don't get is unencumbered time. Just time to wander around without a thought in my head. Sit in some coffee place somewhere, reading, writing in my journal.
Having posted recently about the "numinous cloud of romantic possibility" that I've come to miss about NYC, I decided I need some of that. So that's what I did.
I found parking on Hudson Street, and headed for the Factory Cafe. I got a latte, found a seat in the window, and read my Buddhism book, watching the parade of men and (increasingly since I left) straight couples with baby carriages or yung'uns in tow. Sweet.
My softball coach spotted me and stopped in to chat on his way to work at Ty's. Great catching up with him. Big changes are in the offing apparently. One of our number, has been proposed to. His partner had hip replacement surgery. And he and his partner were interviewed for a segment on In The Life on same sex couples who have been together like forever. (Or as he put it, "far far far far too long." With a smile, he said that.)
Afterwards, I stopped in to visit him at Ty's, and found the early evening crowd to be enticingly toothsome. I started to feel hungry, so I headed to Go Sushi on Village Square (that's 6th Ave and Chrisopher for you outtatowners), and then decided to head to the Spiegel.
In part, I wanted to confirm a theory that the Baron and I cooked up last weekend.
Okay. Here's my theory. Those Chelsea guys! They have all these fabulous gay bars in Chelsea with amazing interiors and great drinks, and they wear their hottest clothes and head there and meet up with their friends, and talk all kinds of smack, and catch up on the latest, and laugh and comiserate, and such. But here's what they can't do at G and XL or wherever: they can't make a play for that hottie across the room. Because when you swim in the creme de la creme of NYC gay life, you never know who he might be, and you don't want to do something like make a pass and get shot down by someone who might be the client who walks into your ad agency on monday morning. So what these guys can't do is get laid. But lo and behold, this bar with all these dark corners opened up, and it's not the kind of place that Chelsea guys would go to, so of course, they all flock there. Because that's where the rules are lifted, and they might just be able to get laid.
And indeed, the Spiegel was mobbed with Chelsea guys, wearing Hollister instead of Abercrombie & Fitch right now.
But there was some leather in the place. More, in fact, than I'm used to seeing there. And, it was an unseasonably balmy night. So I headed to the roofdeck to have a cigar. I met a few guys, including one who works for none other than Roman Cool. I shared with him my nickname for his boss, and it's origins, and he concurred that it was apt.
And I ran into the delicious Booie! With whom I did the scene that almost got shut down last year at Delta. He was resplendent in rubber.
Okay. Then I noticed that on the second floor, around the pool table, it was incredibly dimly lit. I mean, if someone standing a yard away from you did the "how many fingers am I holding up" thing, you'd have a hard time with that.
Uh huh.
But, oddly, no one seemed to be taking advantage of that.
I worked my way through the crowd. The crowd of guys just standing there in the darkness. And saw this totally hot muscle guy. Inexplicably, he was wearing a wifebeater over a harness. No idea what he was thinking there, but he was so hot that he could have been wearing a Hello Kitty! tshirt and pulled it off. I positioned myself directly across from him, and for a good ten minutes, we just stood there, looking at each other.
SooOOooOOOOoooo hot.
Finally, when I crossed the four feet of space that separated us, it was instant lip lock. And touching and holding and pinching nipples and exploring down the seats of pants. He was a great kisser. He had a great touch. And his body just felt so good. So good.
I love that. In fact, just kissing and touching and holding some stranger in a dark bar is one of my favorite things about being gay.
Eventually, he called it quits. Not sure if I was being fired or whether he was just moving on or whatever, but it was cool. He said something about having to take a piss and recharge. Cool.
But, we apparently were the catalyst for all kinds of gettin' busy. Instead of standing there in the darkness, there was now this writhing, sucking, kissing throng around me. I really got off on the hot muscle daddy to my right, who was working the balls of a hot Dominican boy. The boy would say, "No, that's too much!" and the daddy would ease up some, talk him through it, and continue putting him through his paces. Great interaction! At one point, the boy was going down on him, sucking cock like a pro, and I caught the daddy's eye. He smile, and I gave him a hammy, exagerated thumbs up.
And, eventually, someone in the employ of the Spiegel figured out what was going on, and pushed his way through the throng, shining his flashlight into the darkest corners. Alas. We all kind of hung out after that, but the action never really got going again.
I definitley didn't intend to, but I ended up closing the place down, leaving at 4 am. This meant that I got home at 5:30. This meant that I was going to bed at the time when I would have to get up for work in 24 hours. And I am not a young and vigourous pup anymore!
So, as you can well imagine, today was a slow day.
Frolic of Leathermen
Y’know that Collective Noun thing? All those nutty names for groups of animals? A husk of jackrabbits, a kindle of kittens, a gaze of racoons, a leap of leopards, a fling of sandpipers, a parliament of owls?
Now, perusing websites like this one leads me to believe that someone, or some group of someones, sat down one sunday morning and drank way too much tea and pissed their pants giggling coming up with them.
But we love Collective Nouns, right?
And so, we here at SingleTails are proposing the following serve as Collective Nouns for certain segments of the BDSM world... Lemme know what you think, and feel free to add your own.
A brace of skinheads
A quelling of dungeon masters
A honey of cubs
A bristle of bootblacks
A cracking of whipsmen
A penetration of fisters
A service of boys
A shackling of slaves
A dominion of Masters
An endurance of masochists
An infliction of sadists
A transgression of barebackers
A patrol of uniform fetishists
A pitch of rubbermen
A hank of bondage Tops
A glug of pisspigs
... or maybe a quench of pisspigs?
A cantanker of Old Guard Leathermen
A fulmination of New Jack Leathermen
A welter of painpigs
... or maybe a blister of painpigs?
A coddle of infantilists
A darkling of Edge players
A grope of bears
A taut of bondage bottoms
A lapping of leatherpups
Madonna Rules Everything Around Me
Last night, after First Friday in Doylestown, I headed to the Raven down in New Hope. Pretty typical night at the Raven, as in, blisteringly disappointing. So I watched television. There was a reasonably hot boy standing next to me. At one point, Madonna’s new video, Hung Up came on.
I am, of course, perfectly placed in the demographic to be a slavish admirer of her. Gay, spent my dancing days in the Eighties and early Nineties.
And I am.
But I’ve gotta tell you, this video...
Lemme put it this way. I remember years ago watching a Marilyn Monroe movie. Forget what the title was, but they were on a boat. I’ve also seen Seven Year Itch, Some Like It Hot, and, of course, The Misfits, which also has the added bonus of Monty Cliff.
But anyway, watching a Marilyn movie with a buddy of mine, we both simultaneously had the same realization: we would totally go straight for Marilyn Monroe. I mean, she is just so sexy! I pant after her.
Well, as with Marilyn, so with Madonna.
I swear! She looks amazing in that video. And she’s a mother of two!
So hot boy and I just went off on this Madonna-focused love fest. “It’s cause she does yoga and pilades!” “Look at her move! So hot!” “And she has this mixed message thing going on, unapproachable but she wants you.” “Look at her legs!” “She just takes sex and turns it into art!”
And then, I bid hot boy goodnight, and headed home to listen to thhe song I’d just seen the video for. And it’s really good.
Thank You, God!
The Almighty did it again!
Right there in Doylestown. At Starbucks. (Of course.)
Yesterday after work, I’m tooling over there, and standing out front was this... this... this boy. Unbelievable.
I swear, he was an unbelievablly close approximation of Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. So close, I debated with myself if in fact it was Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. But quickly realized that Doylestown, Pennsylvania, is just not on Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel’s map.
But there he was, in all his august glory, smoking a Marlboro, talking on a cell phone, while this posse of girls, their eyes shining, sat literally at his feet, just so totally smitten.
(I, on the other hand, leaned up against the railing watching him, my eyes shining, totally smitten.)
I decided to run inside, grab a latte, and that it wasn’t, in fact, too cold to enjoy a cigar out there on the porch. I imagined the boy--you should have seen the guns on him!--asking me about cigars, and me turning him on to them, taking him around the corner and buying him his first one, and then sitting there enjoying my cigar while he gave a try to his first cigar, and of course he’d like it, and we’d sit for hours on the porch of Starbucks, talking, smoking cigars, and it gets dark early this time of year, and when I decide it’s dark enough and nobody’s around, I’d handcuff him, throw him in my jeep, take him home, lead him into the garage, chain him up, plow him till his eyes cross, chain him up out there, and keep him as my personal cigar boy cumdump.
But when I emerged from Starbucks with my triple shot latte and my cigar in hand, he was gone.
Which is probably just as well, right?
Y’know that Collective Noun thing? All those nutty names for groups of animals? A husk of jackrabbits, a kindle of kittens, a gaze of racoons, a leap of leopards, a fling of sandpipers, a parliament of owls?
Now, perusing websites like this one leads me to believe that someone, or some group of someones, sat down one sunday morning and drank way too much tea and pissed their pants giggling coming up with them.
But we love Collective Nouns, right?
And so, we here at SingleTails are proposing the following serve as Collective Nouns for certain segments of the BDSM world... Lemme know what you think, and feel free to add your own.
A brace of skinheads
A quelling of dungeon masters
A honey of cubs
A bristle of bootblacks
A cracking of whipsmen
A penetration of fisters
A service of boys
A shackling of slaves
A dominion of Masters
An endurance of masochists
An infliction of sadists
A transgression of barebackers
A patrol of uniform fetishists
A pitch of rubbermen
A hank of bondage Tops
A glug of pisspigs
... or maybe a quench of pisspigs?
A cantanker of Old Guard Leathermen
A fulmination of New Jack Leathermen
A welter of painpigs
... or maybe a blister of painpigs?
A coddle of infantilists
A darkling of Edge players
A grope of bears
A taut of bondage bottoms
A lapping of leatherpups
Madonna Rules Everything Around Me
Last night, after First Friday in Doylestown, I headed to the Raven down in New Hope. Pretty typical night at the Raven, as in, blisteringly disappointing. So I watched television. There was a reasonably hot boy standing next to me. At one point, Madonna’s new video, Hung Up came on.
I am, of course, perfectly placed in the demographic to be a slavish admirer of her. Gay, spent my dancing days in the Eighties and early Nineties.
And I am.
But I’ve gotta tell you, this video...
Lemme put it this way. I remember years ago watching a Marilyn Monroe movie. Forget what the title was, but they were on a boat. I’ve also seen Seven Year Itch, Some Like It Hot, and, of course, The Misfits, which also has the added bonus of Monty Cliff.
But anyway, watching a Marilyn movie with a buddy of mine, we both simultaneously had the same realization: we would totally go straight for Marilyn Monroe. I mean, she is just so sexy! I pant after her.
Well, as with Marilyn, so with Madonna.
I swear! She looks amazing in that video. And she’s a mother of two!
So hot boy and I just went off on this Madonna-focused love fest. “It’s cause she does yoga and pilades!” “Look at her move! So hot!” “And she has this mixed message thing going on, unapproachable but she wants you.” “Look at her legs!” “She just takes sex and turns it into art!”
And then, I bid hot boy goodnight, and headed home to listen to thhe song I’d just seen the video for. And it’s really good.
Thank You, God!
The Almighty did it again!
Right there in Doylestown. At Starbucks. (Of course.)
Yesterday after work, I’m tooling over there, and standing out front was this... this... this boy. Unbelievable.
I swear, he was an unbelievablly close approximation of Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. So close, I debated with myself if in fact it was Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel. But quickly realized that Doylestown, Pennsylvania, is just not on Vin (chained at my feet, soaked in my piss) Diesel’s map.
But there he was, in all his august glory, smoking a Marlboro, talking on a cell phone, while this posse of girls, their eyes shining, sat literally at his feet, just so totally smitten.
(I, on the other hand, leaned up against the railing watching him, my eyes shining, totally smitten.)
I decided to run inside, grab a latte, and that it wasn’t, in fact, too cold to enjoy a cigar out there on the porch. I imagined the boy--you should have seen the guns on him!--asking me about cigars, and me turning him on to them, taking him around the corner and buying him his first one, and then sitting there enjoying my cigar while he gave a try to his first cigar, and of course he’d like it, and we’d sit for hours on the porch of Starbucks, talking, smoking cigars, and it gets dark early this time of year, and when I decide it’s dark enough and nobody’s around, I’d handcuff him, throw him in my jeep, take him home, lead him into the garage, chain him up, plow him till his eyes cross, chain him up out there, and keep him as my personal cigar boy cumdump.
But when I emerged from Starbucks with my triple shot latte and my cigar in hand, he was gone.
Which is probably just as well, right?
Thursday, November 03, 2005
At The Gym
Change, huh? I wanted change.
So I went to the gym tonight. First time in a week. Didn't get an opportunity with the Baron visiting, and I ushered in my 42nd year on earth with spasms in my lower back. But I seem to be on this great trend. I'm finally gaining weight again, and I'm lifting more weight than I ever have in my life. And feeling good!
So anyway, I was heading into the locker room and this guy I see there all the time was heading out. I heard him mention TIG. ("TIG" refers to "Tungstun Inert Gas welding.") I know. I learned how to do it two years ago.
"Are you a welder?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm an iron worker. Been an iron worker my whole life."
And he said that with that note of pride in his voice. Distinction. I am an iron worker. That's my place in the world. That's the way I stand up and take my place in the world.
And then, for once in my life, I said something resembling the right thing at the right time. Instead of thinking of it the next morning in the shower.
"Wow! That's my dream job."
And so we talked. Yeah, he is hiring, well... always looking for good people.
I think that if I want this, I could get it.
Dang. I could be a welder. An iron worker.
But here's the downside. it would mean saying goodbye to Wuperior Soodcraft. A place that's become so much more than a job to me over the past two years. And, I was told not so long ago that I've sort of transformed the entire place.
Like... Gosh! Right?
So who is this ironworker guy? Well, he's probably in his fifties. Always ready with a hello and a smile. Got lots of ink. More along the lines of waking up after a drunken binge and finding out why you have that burning sensation on your arm. (He's in recovery. He mentioned it, asking if he knew me from a meeting.) And he has a bumper sticker on his truck that says, "Nobody ever drowned in sweat," and wears a tshirt that says "Pain is weakness leaving the body."
So, y'know... I like him.
Decisions decisions decisions.
I'm gonna drop a sample of my stick welding skills into my gym bag.
Change, huh? I wanted change.
So I went to the gym tonight. First time in a week. Didn't get an opportunity with the Baron visiting, and I ushered in my 42nd year on earth with spasms in my lower back. But I seem to be on this great trend. I'm finally gaining weight again, and I'm lifting more weight than I ever have in my life. And feeling good!
So anyway, I was heading into the locker room and this guy I see there all the time was heading out. I heard him mention TIG. ("TIG" refers to "Tungstun Inert Gas welding.") I know. I learned how to do it two years ago.
"Are you a welder?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm an iron worker. Been an iron worker my whole life."
And he said that with that note of pride in his voice. Distinction. I am an iron worker. That's my place in the world. That's the way I stand up and take my place in the world.
And then, for once in my life, I said something resembling the right thing at the right time. Instead of thinking of it the next morning in the shower.
"Wow! That's my dream job."
And so we talked. Yeah, he is hiring, well... always looking for good people.
I think that if I want this, I could get it.
Dang. I could be a welder. An iron worker.
But here's the downside. it would mean saying goodbye to Wuperior Soodcraft. A place that's become so much more than a job to me over the past two years. And, I was told not so long ago that I've sort of transformed the entire place.
Like... Gosh! Right?
So who is this ironworker guy? Well, he's probably in his fifties. Always ready with a hello and a smile. Got lots of ink. More along the lines of waking up after a drunken binge and finding out why you have that burning sensation on your arm. (He's in recovery. He mentioned it, asking if he knew me from a meeting.) And he has a bumper sticker on his truck that says, "Nobody ever drowned in sweat," and wears a tshirt that says "Pain is weakness leaving the body."
So, y'know... I like him.
Decisions decisions decisions.
I'm gonna drop a sample of my stick welding skills into my gym bag.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
41
No trick-or-treaters on Hallowe'en! Not a one! So luckily my father gets all of it.
Tonight, at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown, it was the Feast of All Souls. A requiem mass was said. I'd never heard one before. Usually, a resurrection mass, celebratory rather than solemn, is said at funerals in my church. It was beautiful. The music was sublime.
After church, I was approached by a parishioner who invited me to join up.
I didn't launch into it with him, but of course, St. Paul's has to "come out" as a Welcoming church (as in, 'welcoming of gay men and lesbians') before I'd have my letter transferred from St. Luke's in NYC.
Work goes well. Of course. And I'm looking forward to GMSMA's leatherfest and the erotic art fair up in NYC this Saturday.
And, finally my chain saw is back from getting repairs. So I'll be able to plunge into chopping firewood in earnest on Sunday.
Huh.
Only this. The thought that keeps passing through my head: I want a change.
I want a change.
I'm ready for something new.
Something transformative.
No trick-or-treaters on Hallowe'en! Not a one! So luckily my father gets all of it.
Tonight, at St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Doylestown, it was the Feast of All Souls. A requiem mass was said. I'd never heard one before. Usually, a resurrection mass, celebratory rather than solemn, is said at funerals in my church. It was beautiful. The music was sublime.
After church, I was approached by a parishioner who invited me to join up.
I didn't launch into it with him, but of course, St. Paul's has to "come out" as a Welcoming church (as in, 'welcoming of gay men and lesbians') before I'd have my letter transferred from St. Luke's in NYC.
Work goes well. Of course. And I'm looking forward to GMSMA's leatherfest and the erotic art fair up in NYC this Saturday.
And, finally my chain saw is back from getting repairs. So I'll be able to plunge into chopping firewood in earnest on Sunday.
Huh.
Only this. The thought that keeps passing through my head: I want a change.
I want a change.
I'm ready for something new.
Something transformative.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
